


Do Not Go (Gentle)

by blostma (Forbearnan)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, F/M, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, canon AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 11:18:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forbearnan/pseuds/blostma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haunted by memories of his wife’s death and the Last Stand of the Dragons, Uther captures his destined doom, Emrys, and binds his magic. He thinks nothing of making him Arthur’s manservant in an attempt to humiliate the magic race, but as Merlin grows weaker and increasingly unstable, is this truly the wisest course of action?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2013 Merlin Big Bang challenge. For author's and artist's notes, please visit [this link](http://paperlegends.livejournal.com/175494.html).

_She stops at the queer knoll in the tree, set there by Nature herself when lightning had struck the ancient wood, and lightly brushes her fingers over the wound. Whispering soft words into the bark, she caresses the rough and untidy blackened scar, coaxing the charred edges to grow together. For centuries she has nurtured this forest that has granted her life, and they have come to understand and respect each other, help each other in their small, yet significant coexistence._

_As she nears her home, she breathes in the air and smells the scent of burning wood drifting in the breeze. She sighs. It’s too early in the day to light a fire. Young Tom’s magic must have lashed out at its child master again, she reasons. He has not yet come to terms with magic; he does not yet understand the delicate balance of life, the intertwined coexistence between magic and man. In time, nature will show him as Nature has shown her, and he will learn to be a fine practitioner of magic, using his arts to grow the forest and father their people._

_The scent becomes more powerful as she nears her village, stinging her nose as it quickly permeates the air. She hastens her easy pace. There—that is the familiar opening in the trees where her village lies, where several black pillars of smoke are rushing into the sky._

_All has been reduced to black, charred ruins. Carts are dashed aside with broken wheels slowly turning in the fire-improving wind. Empty tents are broken and torn, their covers lacing the charred earth. Cups and plates, pots and pans are smashed, their small shards scattered about the ground, crunching beneath her feet. Several pyres are burning in the center of the decimated village._

This is where the children gather to hear the little birds sing, where the flycatchers voice their ballads and each bird eagerly adds another melodic touch to their well-worn tale in their small village surrounded by the trees.

_The flames are exuberant and full of so much life. Bright tendrils rise above her head, reaching for the sky, and soon dissipate into air, only to be replaced by another vigorous cycle of burning and consuming until all has been dissolved within its path. In the flames, their tortured tomes are burning, their sacred writings are rapidly disintegrating, their words being mocked by the ever-consuming mass._

_Beside the pyres, harshly dug into the earth and tempest-tossed by the fires’ heat, the blood-red flag stamped with the golden dragon crest looms over the destroyed village._

_All she can hear is the whistling of the wind, the crunching of the clay, the crackling of the fire, and the broken chimes hanging from fire lashed trees, sharply clanking against each other in the breeze._

_Standing in the center of her village, dumbstruck and numb, she falls to her knees and tears at the earth. Her eyes water from the fire’s bite._

Where are my people? _she laments. The raw dirt cakes her hands._

 _Staring at the ground with blurred eyes, she notices a fresh seed on top of the pile of overturned earth. It is too young to grow, still dormant. Closing her fingers around the tender life, she whispers, only whispers,_ Blostma _. Upon reopening her hands a small, purple flower blooms._

 _Lifting her tear-stained eyes to the sky, she yells,_ Tídrénas _!_

_A calmness, a stillness; a crack of thunder suddenly resounds in the sky, and the earth is soon covered in a cloak of rain._

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Will lies upon the ground and gazes into the sky, his eyes lost in the open expanse of blue.

“Do you feel it, the sun?”

“Of course,” Will responds, smiling. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Merlin shrugs his shoulders. “Dunno,” he says and sighs. Closing his eyes, he softly brushing his fingers across the slender blades of grass.

“It’s like the sun’s warmth,” he wonders, and he breathes in the fresh air and slowly exhales. There’s the soft thrumming of sun, the whisper of wind, the humming of earth, the heartbeat of life. It’s there; it’s always there. He takes in another deep breath.

“Will?” he sighs.

“Tryin’ to sleep here,” comes the sleepy, delayed response.

“Lazy bum,” he playfully mutters under his breath. Merlin turns his back towards Will and nestles into the sun’s warmth.

“Heard that.”

“Thought you were sleeping.”

“I am.”

“Then stop talking.”

Will huffs and turns over.

After a moment’s silence, both turn to face each other and burst out laughing. The air seems to ripple with their voices, the sun seems to shimmer, or maybe, Merlin thinks, it’s because he is laughing so hard.

This is how Hunith finds them, laughing. “You’ve got to get going now, honey,” she tells Merlin. “Say goodbye to your friend.”

“Awh. Not yet,” Will moans.

“Sorry, Will,” Merlin says, nodding his head as he stands up.

Hunith casts Merlin a sorrowful glance before turning around and heading back towards the village.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

The warm glow of his eyes is obscured by the sunlight’s soft rays as he delicately places the seeds into the land, and with a soft pat, the silent bargain between him and the earth is struck. Tomorrow, timely rain will nurture these seeds, which will sprout within a week’s time. Their crop will be bountiful and last them many moons. The people of Ealdor will be ever thankful that the earth has granted them so much produce, for they have known hunger.

Over a decade ago, a great famine had spread over the land, and all of the crops and many of the livestock had perished. Old men and women died and children fell dreadfully ill. Where their graves were dug, crows and ravens flocked, circling the sites until the ever-diminishing crowd passed. The rotting corpses, buried beneath the sand-like earth, were easily dug up and savagely torn apart by wild animals.

Among those who died was Mrs. Handover, an elderly lady who was dearly loved by the village because of her simple, yet tasteful breads. Her funeral was brief, as there were many bodies to be buried. Grief-stricken, her husband refused to let anyone else touch her. He was last seen wandering out of the village with her stiff body cradled in his arms and his hollow eyes cast into the distance.

“Merlin,” his mother said one night before bed. She cupped her harvest-worn hands around his face and planted a soft kiss upon his forehead. Softly rubbing the back of his head, she then pulled him into a tight embrace.

“I need you to do something for me,” she whispered into his shoulder.

“Anything,” he assured her, pressing his small body into the warm embrace.

A brief silence filled the room. “I need you to make some water for us.”

He pulled away from her body and looked into her tired eyes with disbelief. “You want me to use _magic_?”

She nodded her head.

“But,” he began, casting his eyes to the ground and digging his shoes into the dust, picking up wisps of powdery earth that soon disappeared into the dry air. “Will already suspects.”

Hunith smiled. “I know how long you’ve wanted someone to share your magic with. It’s dangerous, Merlin, and I caution you. But this case is an exception - you must understand. We cannot hold on much longer.”

And so, he made it rain. It was quite simple, actually. Just a slight pull on the silky fabric of air and he felt the welcoming embrace of the waters, supple and calm.

In the darkness, the ground’s thirst was quenched, and the seeds, _oh_ , he would have liked to feel the radiating blossom of life, but that would have been too suspicious, he decided. So instead, he picked a dead seed from their storage and cupped it in his hands. The familiar warm glow spread behind his eyes, and when he reopened his hands, a small purple flower blossomed.

Serendipity, the people of the land had called this miraculous event.

In the golden city of Camelot, King Uther and Queen Ygraine hailed High Priestess Nimueh as their savior.

Two months later, magic would be banned, and the war would begin.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

The strong aroma of spice and incense and the woody scent of blacksmiths’ smoke quickly spreadthrough the air. Brightly colored silken fabrics, skeins of yarn, and shining baubles adorn the small shops. The melodic song of pipes and light patter of feet, mingled with peals of laughter and hollow clops of horses’ hooves upon the cobblestone ground, resonate in the open square.

No one but he bothers to watch the guards drag a man across the square. No one bothers to help the man whose eyes are drained of life, full of emptiness, just like all of the others, just like her desolate eyes before she passed.

From his window, Arthur watches as an elderly woman runs up to the man and catches him as the guards drop him into the ground. His exhausted body falls into her arms.

“There is only one evil in this land, and it is not magic! It is you!” she yells at them, her hoarse voice barely distinguishable among the loud cacophony of sounds. “With your hatred and your ignorance! You killed my son!”

Arthur tears his gaze away from the scene and rapidly shuts the stained-glass window to his chambers. All sounds of the citadel suddenly disappear. Only the crackling of his chamber fireplace remains.

He makes his way to his table and sits into the large, leather chair, placing both elbows upon the solid table and pressing both palms to his forehead.

Killed him? Without magic, this _man_ ’s heart is still beating; his body still moving - dead? This is what sorcerers consider execution? He is not dead; she should count herself lucky. She did not have to watch him day to day slowly wither away. She did not have to watch him suffer or cry as his strength failed him. No, she is just being selfish, wanting everything to be perfect when nothing is ever perfect. She wanted the impossible. He is not dead; she should count herself lucky.

A soft tapping, rapping at his door interrupts his thoughts.

“My Lord?” comes a soft female voice. Another timid knock. “Arthur?” she whispers.

The heavy door groans as warped wood rubs against solid stone. There’s the slight patter of her footsteps.

“I'm worried about her, Arthur. She’s getting sicker, and Uther won’t listen to me!” Gwen throws her arms into the air. “Whenever I ask Morgana she tells me nothing, but I see it in her eyes, the fear. I’ve known her for many, many years, and she’s never kept a secret from me. Whatever she’s hiding, it’s important enough that she feels that she can’t share it with me.” Gwen brushes the tears off her face. “I don’t understand,” she adds.

Her breath unsteadily hitches. Arthur rises and embraces her, tucking his chin into her soft curls and inhales her sweet, lavender perfume.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into her hair.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_The boy averts his eyes, staring at the stone wall as he sits on the hard floor with his arms tightly fastened behind him. The thick manacles irritatingly grasp his wrists, cutting into his flesh. He tightly clenches his jaw as the man circles him, examining his every movement._

_The rhythmic intake of each breath, the slow blinking of his eyes, the steady thrumming of his magic._

_“A gifted one!” the man happily exclaims, quite satisfied with himself, and he nods his head, muttering to himself as walks around him. The boy narrows his eyes._

_His leather boots make a dampened thud upon the dirty floor, scattering dirt as he encircles him. After several minutes of pacing and mumbling, he kneels beside the boy, forcing him to make eye contact._

_“I would normally exchange the polite introductions, but I do believe you already know who I am.” A smile pulls at the corners of his lips. “Would you kindly tell me your name?”_

_The boy presses his lips into a solid line. He does not like the cunning glint in the man’s mistrustful eyes, the false courteous tone in his voice. These are not the words of the man he used to know. These are not the gestures of the man he used to know. The man he had known knew his name, and yet now he asks for it again. Haven’t they known each other for years? What game is he playing?_

_“Your name?”_

_When the boy does not answer, the man calmly places his hand into the deep folds of his coal-black cloak and pulls out a dagger._

_Its blade is smooth, devoid of any imperfections. The fine edge shimmers in the flickering torch light, awaiting its master’s command._

_The boy’s eyes widen, and his breath hitches. His magic burns inside his veins, waiting to be used, wanting to be used. But where has it gone? Unreachable, distant, detached. The spelled manacles taunt his magic._

_The man ignores the boy as he studies the blade, delicately running his fingers along its edge in a caressing manner. He places his finger upon its point and presses ever so slightly. A thick orb of blood surfaces from the slight wound and then slowly trails down his finger and drips upon the stone floor._

_He looks again at the boy._

_“Your name?”_

_His eyes flicker between the blood-covered blade, and the man’s dark eyes and finally settle upon the blade._

_“Mordred.” He pulls at the chains. “My name is Mordred.”_

_He tries to steady his breathing, slow his fluttering heartbeat, but as the knife nears him he shrinks into the wall._

_“Hello, Mordred.”_

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.


	2. Chapter 2

_“I know that it is every citizen of Camelot’s duty to pay the tax, but I cannot because it is too high for me. I have given you every farthing and shilling that I possess - no less. I am without family, without husband. I am left to fend for myself. Money is scare on the edge of the western Camelot border, and bandits have attacked our village many a time this year. I have nothing left to offer.”_

_Her voice echoes off the chamber walls. Slowly raising her head, she stands up, and the light glistens off her tear-ridden eyes._

_Nimueh’s words echo in his mind. “Be kind to her, please,” she had told to him. “She was my best friend before my duties to Camelot came before all else.”_

_“What is your name?” he requests, slightly dampening the usual stiff tone in his voice._

_“Ygraine, My Lord.” Her voice falters, and she averts her eyes._

_“And you say that you live along the western border of Camelot?”_

_Her gaze returns to him. “Yes, Sire.”_

_“You said that bandits attacked you. How often has this occurred?”_

_“Every month.”_

_Uther looks at her white cotton gown adorned with delicate blue lace flowers. The strings of her faded purple bodice are frayed and the hem on the left sleeve is half-finished. A spot of dirt has soaked into the corner of her hair wrap. Uther’s eyes follow her golden tresses which gently curl around her shoulders and flow down the length of her back._

_He finds the melancholy in the woman’s beautiful eyes and wonders if any hint of joy had ever played in those depths._

_Turning towards one the knights by his side, he says, “Escort this lady to the eastern wing and give her a bed. Send a group of knights to the western border in the morn. Within a few weeks, we should be rid of those bandits.”_

_After taking a respectful bow, the knight motions to the lady to follow him._

_“Thank you, My Lord,” she says, giving him a polite bow, and her eyes cast him a veiled smile before she follows the knight._

_There’s the hint of joy he was searching for._

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

“Did you see how he addressed the King?”

“Such arrogance! Such pomp!”

“Claimed to be the greatest sorcerer that ever lived!”

“Impossible! Only the best are at Uther’s side. Everyone knows that.”

“Nimueh seemed to recognize him and so did Aredian. Uther addressed him as Cornelius Sigan.”

“Heard that he was banned centuries ago after attempting to find the ‘cure’ for death.”

“That’s got to be a myth…”

“Does he have a death wish? Did you see how he killed those knights? Swept them right off their feet. They were dead before their heads even touched the ground.”

“Did he kill him?”

“You mean did Aredian kill him?”

“Yes.”

“ _Impossible!”_

“How?”

“The dagger.”

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

It is the shimmering frame, glistening in the shaft of light and peeping through a crack in the cottage ceiling, that first catches his attention. He’s struggling to stand upon his folded sheets and pillows as he reaches for the gilded mirror engraved with dragons. He reaches and reaches, but his arms are too short, and it’s too high up above him. So he wills it comes closer to him, closer, _closer_.

“Merlin, what are you doing?”

Merlin turns his head, and in an instant the mirror drops onto his bed. He plops down upon the sheets and struggles to pick up the heavy object.

 _Oh!_ And it fascinates him, the blending of blue and gold.

“It’s from your father, Merlin,” she tells him, but he’s too young and too distracted to understand, and he touches the other face and the other eyes.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

When he is old enough to understand “ _You have magic”_ and ask “ _Where is father?”,_ Hunith finds him screaming.

Bolting upright in his bed, he stares into the distance at something invisible, and his eyes a frightful molten gold.” Sweat drips from his brow. He screams, and a clay pot is suspended in midair.

_Crack!_

The clay vessel explodes. On the floor, pottery shards mingle with pillow feathers. Hunith runs up to him, trying to comfort him in the warmth of her arms.

“ _Shhhh. It’s alright, honey. Mummy’s here.”_

Rocking him back and forth, she notices the gleam of glass shards upon the floor.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

He thinks he understands magic and that magic understands him, so he plays with it and dangles toys above his head, opens pages to books, floats plates onto the table. He grins as the humming warmth runs through his body, the soft touch of gold warms behind his eyes.

“Look at me!” he enthusiastically tells his mum one day, displaying a neat line of laundry folding itself in the air.

“Be careful now, my darling,” she warns him, ruffling his dark hair, and he giggles, grinning ear to ear. Hunith smiles. “Remember - this is our little secret to keep.”

“I don’t understand,” he begins in his high-pitched young boy’s voice. “Sigan was like me. He was killed.” Merlin averts his eyes. “I’m not a monster, am I?”

Hunith’s breath hitches. She firmly grasps his shoulders and directs her gaze into his eyes, his dark blue eyes, _his father’s_.

“Don’t you ever think that,” she tells him. Merlin gives her a slight nod of his head, and Hunith pulls him into a tight embrace. “All I ask is that you be more careful now.”

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Merlin is eight when he first learns to keep quiet. He’s in the forest collecting berries — well, that is what he what he told his mother. He is actually eating more of the berries than he is collecting them. Using magic to make them multiply is _much_ easier.

He’s softly humming to himself when he hears someone crying, and he follows the sound into an open field where a young girl sits on a log. She’s clutching her shoulder, and a sticky stream of blood drips over her fingers, down her arm, and onto the forest floor.

Instinctively, Merlin quickens his pace and tears the cloth berry bag. The berries scatter about the forest floor.

“What’s your name?” he asks as he wraps her injured shoulder.

“Kara,” she musters between tears. “Why does he ignore me?”

Merlin adds pressure to the wound.

“Where do you live?” he asks.

“Why does he ignore me?” she insists. Tears fall from her eyes.

“Come with me,” he tells her, grasping her small hand in his and slightly tugging at her good arm. “My mum can help you. My village isn’t far from here.”

Kara doesn’t move. Instead, she remains on the log, crying and rubbing her eyes. The makeshift bandage quickly saturates with blood.

“Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you,” he tries to console her. Still she doesn’t move. “Stay here. I’ll be back with some help.” Merlin runs towards his village.

When he, his mum and several villagers arrive, the girl is gone, and all that’s left are the scattered blueberries.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Magic’s fun, just a bit of fun. But as he grows older, he notices how people stare at him, whisper things behind his back. He knows he’s been careful; he hasn’t told a soul. Yet the uneasiness as people brush by him, the things they mutter under their breaths about his unnamed, unknown father. Young boys taunt him about his too big ears and dark hair, his gangly, thin frame, and the father who abandoned him.

Silence. His magic grows hostile towards himself and the people, and he uses magic less and less until it becomes a thing of the past. His unused magic grows cold and calloused, foreign and feral, and it soon lashes out against him.

He lies sick in bed for weeks with a fever and chills. One day, he reaches for a cup of water that is just beyond his reach. Too tired to care, he uses magic to grab the object, and in that moment warmth instantly rushes through his veins, disperses throughout his body. A steady, melodious thrumming fills his heart.

Merlin regains his grip over magic, yet he remains mistrustful of its existence.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Merlin meets Will when he and his father move into the village. Hunith warmheartedly welcomes them into their home, and by the way Hunith looks into Will’s father’s eyes, Merlin surmises that she met him sometime in the past. Although their relationship remains platonic, they seem to understand each other, and after much careful prodding, Merlin learns that Will’s father knew his father. Hunith will tell him no more.

So at night, with his ear pressed against the door and the soft glow of candle seeping through a solitary crack, Merlin hears them whispering about his father, alive, somewhere in Camelot. They are careful not to mention his name or exact whereabouts; they speak in generalities. Nevertheless, knowledge of his father’s existence comforts Merlin and reinvigorates a dim candle within his heart.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

In the woods they play, piling leaves into great mounds. From a high tree, each climbs and carefully positions himself on a long branch with his toes curled around the rough bark. Each crouch and jump, sending a flurry of leaves across the ground. The crackle of leaves, snap of twigs, and their laugher sprinkle the air.

Down by the lake, they skip the gritty rocks across the water’s slick surface. Will is not very good at this game, Merlin soon discovers. Nor is he – but with just a slight hint magic, he skips the rocks farther than Will. Secretly, of course, _carefully_ , he uses magic. It feels like joy and bubbling laughter escaping the closed cavity of his chest. _Joy’s like magic,_ Merlin discovers the first time he uses magic to skip a rock. It goes _hop, hop_ across the surface, each skip forming circular ripples which weave into each other. _Joy’s not bad._

One time, they spend all night in the woods collecting fireflies. It isn’t until the frowning sun begins to peak at them above the horizon that they realize how long they’ve been away. Merlin and Will aren’t able to explain to their parents why they thought collecting fireflies was such a splendid idea.

“You don’t know what could have been lurking in those woods at that late hour! Don’t scare us like that again,” their parents had scolded.

They keep the little insects for a few nights and watch through the glass jar as their flickering glow speckles the darkness. _The glow - it’s like magic, Will._ Merlin wants so desperately to tell him. In the darkness, he squeezes his eyes shut. He feels the clenching knot in his chest as he takes in another deep breath. He wants to trust Will, he wants to tell him who he is, what he can do. But he can’t. If Will truly knew who he was….

The urge to tell or not tell. Indecision tears at his heart.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_Cruuunch!_

The leaves break into small pieces, and the gargantuan piles of leaves fans out beneath them.

Merlin cups his hand around a limb and lifts his body over the branch. Sitting on his perch, he swings his legs and laughs as he watches Will below him, struggling to dislodge his foot from between two stubborn branches.

Will busy and distracted, so Merlin decides to ask, “Does your father know mine?”

His cheeky grin disappears. “No,” Will replies, too quickly. He dislodges his foot.

“Ok,” Merlin says, and his words hang in the air as he jumps from the tree.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

“And so the men never opened the lead box again, for fear of the goblin inside, which, if freed, would wreak havoc over the entire kingdom - _again_ ,” Merlin whispers the ending of his story, and Will gives him an approving elbow bump.

“I have one to tell, too.”

“Go ahead,” Merlin eagerly replies.

“There was once a sorcerer who claimed that he was more powerful than any sorcerer in the entire world.” Will pauses for effect. Merlin rolls his eyes, but the darkness conceals his bored gesture.

“The extent of his power was proclaimed all over the land, and it is even said that he himself helped build the grand kingdom of Camelot. For many decades, he and the first king of Camelot and the kings of all of the surrounding lands, whose names have long since been forgotten, were great friends, but as age wore upon him and his command over the elements began to diminish, he left the kingdom he served in search for a cure, the ultimate cure: he proclaimed that he would only return once he conquered death—”

“Will,” Merlin suddenly interrupted. “I don’t want a history lesson!” he complains. “Cornelius Sigan went crazy finding this ‘cure,’ but he was killed by Aredian. The end. Can’t you tell another story?”

“Wait, Merlin. I’ve made up a new ending.”

Merlin sighs.

“Centuries later, after many kingdoms had risen and fallen, he returned to Camelot, but the new king did not recognize Camelot’s friend, for he no longer caressed the tongue of the Old Religion, nor did he wear the proud robes of Camelot. He had returned a half-crazed man. Without warning, he angered the king by killing a few of his best knights. They were dead even before their heads even touched the ground. Infuriated, one struck the sorcerer’s heart with the dagger and—”

“— _Shhh!”_ Merlin hisses as he senses the close presence of his mother and Will’s father. When they are further away from the door, he whispers, “Go on.”

“—once the flames of his pyre had died and his body had been reduced to nothing but ashes, all that remained was a single glass heart glowing with a strange blue essence.”

The crack of light between the door disappears. Hunith and Will’s father have gone to bed.

“His ashes, along with the strange stone that was embedded into the lid of his tomb, were buried deep beneath the castle, and the greatest sorcerer was forgotten. Hundreds of years later, the tomb was rediscovered by miners. One took the glowing glass stone between his hands, and the essence enveloped his body; the spirit of the sorcerer took hold of him. None suspected the possessed man, and the spirit lived on in the hearts of men forever. The sorcerer had conquered death itself.”

Merlin nestles further under his bedcovers, pulling the sheets up to his chin and huddles closer to Will. “Where’d you hear that story from?” In the darkness, Will can’t see how wide Merlin’s eyes have grown.

“It’s just a story from Camelot.” Will yawns. “Besides, what would you know about magic, Merlin?”

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Cutting down the tree would have been an easy feat for a grown man. But for Will, the challenge is too great. He won’t relent and neither will the tree. So Merlin sits there for an hour, watching him sweat and huff as he merely scratches at the tree’s bark. A slow moan emits from the tree as it sways in the wind. Another cut. The tree remains.

Eventually Merlin grows bored of sitting upon the ground and flicking leaves across the grass, so he waits for the perfect moment when Will is distracted to use magic.

After a splitting crack, the tree comes crashing down quite spectacularly. He redirects the direction of the fall, and its heavy weight finds a clear spot on the ground opposite Will.

“That was amazing! Told you I could do it.” Will nudges Merlin’s shoulder.

“Yer blasted boys!” comes Old Man Simmons’ voice. “Get this tree off my leg!”

Will quickly scurries away and leaves Merlin behind. He struggles to lift the tree as he helps Simmons dislodge his foot, and the tree crashes back down upon the ground.

“What yer think you’re doin’ out here?” Simmons asks, almost demands as he brushes the dirt off his trousers.

“I-I,” Merlin stutters. “We were cut-ting fire wood.”

Mr. Simmons stands up and carefully tests his leg. He winces and shifts his weight onto his good leg. “Cutting firewood, eh? You don’t cut down trees as thick as this and as old as this for mere _firewood_.” He huffs. “It’s darn old and tough. How’d you even get this thing down?”

Merlin casts his eyes upon the fallen tree _._ When Mr. Simmons is not looking, Merlin uses magic to blacken the tree’s core. “Look.” He points towards the tree. “It’s rotten.”

Mr. Simmons eyes him suspiciously and trudges away, muttering to himself.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Magic becomes a thing of the past. Time drifts.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Sickness and then submission.

It is as though making it rain has opened the land to him. He feels the vibrant spark of life buried within the land, the power of the earth. The forest molds around _him,_ and he chooses to relent, curling his magic around then tender life, lying drunk on the earth’s magic for days. _I’m sorry,_ he whispers to the tree that one lived, and he brushes his fingertips along the moss-covered edges of the tree he had felled.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

After Will learns about his magic, they ghost around each other, and a numb silence hangs between them.

What he had done – how he had been forced to reveal himself…it was wrong; _it was all wrong_. It was not how he had plotted in his head. Before it happened, he was going to tell Will. He was going to show him how he could create a flower, grow seeds. He was going to show Will that magic is life. _No, not this way. It shouldn’t have happened this way._ Merlin cleans the tender wound beneath his neckerchief.

A week passes, and neither speaks of the incident. It’s Will who finally breaks the silence.

“Oh gods,” he sobs, eyes red and cheeks flushed from crying. “He’s gone.”

Merlin stands dumbly in the cottage.

“He’s gone, Merlin. And this entire time I kept thinking that he’d just walk in here, saying it was just a joke, or maybe that the deer he was hunting took him off track and he got lost.” Will quickly wipes away a tear. “I know, it’s just silly, Merlin. I’m probably talking rubbish now - I feel _terrible_. But I don’t know what to do! He’s truly gone, and you? You’ve all I’ve got now.”

Merlin reaches for Will and gives him a tight hug. “I’m here.”

Will’s tears soak into his shirt, his shuttering sobs shake Merlin. Merlin closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_Hop._

Flurries of earth scatter across the soil, and an uneven, unkempt trail follows behind it. The bunny stops and rubs its pebble eyes with its dirt paws and wiggles its tail. Dirt sprays everywhere.

With a flick of his wrist, its ears perk up and head shifts side to side. A smile creeps upon Will’s face. Grinning, Merlin repeatedly curls and straightens his fingers, imitating a clawing motion, and its hind legs scratch at the earth as it digs a shallow hole into the soil.

Amidst the flurry of dirt, the dust bunny’s legs suddenly disappear. Will begins to laugh uncontrollably. Merlin drops his hand, and its front arms crumble away. There go its ears! And it’s face! And the dust bunny returns to the earth as Will struggles to contain his laughter.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_Water splashes into his face. The cold crisp touch of water confuses his senses, numbing his cheeks before a harsh sting whips across his face._

_He reaches for his magic, but he only feels the silence and the stillness of the air. He pulls on his bonds, the cuts in his wrists throb._

_“How are you this morning?”_

_Mordred opens his bleary eyes and struggles to lift his head. The man ignores the boy’s silent glare and continues the one-sided conversation._

_“He told me that you were powerful, but I would never have been able to imagine_ this _. Nimueh is right. Perhaps you are the one.”_

_Suddenly, the man closes his eyes, and his shoulders tense. “Not you,” he says between his teeth. A moment passes before the man returns to his senses. He walks outside the cell, and the iron bars screech as they are closed and locked._

_“I’ve never taken so much from one as gifted as you. I thought you’d be dead.”_

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.


	3. Chapter 3

_Her footsteps echo with every step, and her torchlight casts dark shadows across the jagged walls. The whoosh of the fire’s heat warms her face, whispers in the stoned silence._

_At last she comes to the center of the caves where brilliant white lights show her the way. With a single command of her eyes, her torchlight blows out._

_There’s the stone, her stone. She places her hand upon its shadowy depths, and it warms under her soft touch. It’s thrumming, and its iridescent surface is glowing. She closes her eyes and breathes in the energy the stone is giving her, and upon reopening her eyes, she sees…_

Ygraine placing a hopeful hand upon her flat stomach… Ygraine sitting on her throne beside Uther… The color in her golden-wheat hair fading… The slight hunch in Uther’s shoulders, the overburden of such a large kingdom upon his weary conscience… his hair speckled grey… Ygraine in her white nightgown sitting on their bed, weeping, and Uther is softly rubbing her back… The hollow rage in his eyes as the raft slowly floats away...

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Standing on the balcony above all, flanked by the proud flag of Camelot on his left and Prince Arthur on his right, Uther’s amplified voice looms over the large crowd gathering below.

“Just two months ago, Queen Ygraine died by the hand of High Priestess Nimueh, and as a direct act against the throne, Camelot has waged war against magic.” His voice is suddenly drowned out by the loud rush of sound. Uther absentmindedly tugs his hand away from Arthur’s persistent fingers and raises it to silence them.

With every word, his voice rises and his tone deepens, becoming more assertive and more demanding. He gestures towards each as he speaks. “With the support of the people and Camelot’s finest knights, the beginning of the quest to drive magic from this land has begun. Together, we will eliminate this pestilence and bring Queen Ygraine’s death to justice!” The hungry crowd cheers. In Arthur’s ears, the sound of the crowd is like the cry of victory.

The crowd parts so that there is just enough room for two knights, firmly grasping the arms of a sorcerer, to reach the pyre. Close enough for physical contact, people tear at traitor’s worn clothes and throw dirt into his eyes. Profanity is yelled into his face. But the man between the two knights does not utter a word or pull away from their brutish behavior. Instead, his eyes are steadily trained upon Uther.

“This man, Alvarr Collins, is judged guilty of conspiring to use enchantments and magic.” Alvarr does not wince as the rope cuts into his sore-infested wrists. Uther narrows his eyes.

“Pursuant to the laws of Camelot, I, Uther Pendragon, have decreed that for the crime of sorcery, there is only but one sentence that I can pass.”

Arthur wants to look away, but his father firmly grasps his arm, growls into his face that this is the only way.

A man dressed in a black coat, wearing a hardened, stoic expression, approaches the sorcerer. He circles the man, tightens the bonds. Circling, circling. A calm silence washes over the quiet square; the torches hiss and crackle. He finally stops behind the sorcerer and whispers, only whispers, into his ear.

And just as Alvarr’s eyes widen, the man pulls a dagger from the folds of his coat and forces it into the sorcerer’s wrists. Blood quickly permeates the pale, ragged clothes. The man stabs again, a sickening smile forms upon his lips. Wincing, Alvarr closes his eyes. Another stab. Sweat beads his brow.

The pain suddenly stops.

The warm trickle of blood replaces the smarting of the blade and Alvarr can now hear the slight rustle of earth and the whooshing of torches as the man retreats.

He takes in several deep breaths, tries to steady his shaking legs, and opens his eyes to the king. “You have let your fear of magic turn to hate, and I pity you,” he struggles to say. And a heavy weight presses against his consciousness. He struggles to lift his weary head. Dizziness overwhelms any coherent thoughts. The torchbearer moves closer. Thump, thump, _thump._

_The flames are exuberant and full of so much life. Bright tendrils rise above her head, reaching for the sky, and they soon dissipate into air, only to be replaced by another vigorous cycle of burning and consuming until all has been dissolved within its path._

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Their proud temples, built to stand against the test of time. Years, it took _years –_ he must not forget – for them to be crumbled, demolished, licked by the crude tongue of fire. Years, it took _years_ – he must not forget - for their holy waters to become scorched, tainted. The ground, watered with blood, the field, strewn with bodies. Horses and men, steel and earth, and dragons. All eternally bound together, lying in the snarled mass of death.

Years, it has been _years_ \- he cannot forget - and hatred burns in the mind of the dragonlord Balinor, sitting in the sordid dungeons beneath the grandiose castle with his dragon, both bound by steel _and magic_.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

He has read this document several times over on his journey to the great kingdom, and he understands the words, but somehow this feels wrong. His land has been peaceable for many years, but since the war began and a decade has passed, they – the magic users - have continually crossed the borders into his land, and Camelot is their greatest ally.

The black ink gracefully brushes across the springy surface of vellum. After ending his signature with a flourish, he moves aside, and King Uther adds his mark. Both turn to face each other and shake hands, the court claps and their agreement is struck.

In the tiny village of Ealdor, word spreads like wildfire, and an old man makes his journey to the glorious city of Camelot.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Hunith rummages through their small cottage, collecting odds and ends of practical use, and places them into a small, tightly woven sack. She ties the rough ends together and, with trembling hands, pushes it into Merlin’s arms.

“There is enough food in here to last you a week. In the north, not too far from here, is a cave - you can stay there for the night, but put as much distance between yourself and Camelot as fast as you can,” she slows her rushed words, “Go now, my son. You must leave.” She places a soft kiss upon his forehead.

He stands dumbly in the center of the room. “What?” he asks, confusion written upon his face.

“You aren’t safe here anymore, Merlin. You know that.” She nervously glances behind his shoulders. All of the shades are closed. No voices are present outside their cottage. Only slivers of sunlight peek through the small openings in the torn curtains. “Not since the ban,” she whispers.

Merlin drops the cloth sack upon the floor. “No, Mother. I can’t. What if—?” He pulls his arms around his neck and unties his red neckerchief, throwing the old rag upon the ground. In the mellow hues of light through curtains, Hunith sees the raised gnarled white scar running down the length of his neck across to his collarbone, a reminder of how close she had been to losing him, a reminder of what could have happened if he had not been there to stop them.

“Without you, Mother, who would there be for me to live for?”

She bends down to pick up the red neckerchief and gently brushes a lock of hair away from his face. As her trembling hands tie the cloth around his neck, Merlin gently takes her hands and pulls her into a tight embrace.

“This is our home.”

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

“Will?” Merlin tentatively asks. It’s dark outside, and he’s supposed to be asleep. Will grumbles and turns over. “Where—?” he began, and shaking his head, he instead asks, “Is he alive?”

“My father never wanted me to say anything.” Will pauses. Merlin can hear the high-pitched ringing of the crickets - like the stars, they sing like the stars - and the solitary night owl hooting in the distance. “Just don’t tell your mum that I told you. Swear?”

“I swear.”

Will sighs and bites his lip before continuing. “Your father is Balinor, the last dragonlord, and prisoner to King Uther Pendragon of Camelot.”

Merlin blankly stares into the darkness. Impossible. _If_ he is who Will claims him to be, then why hadn’t his mother brought him to his father when magic was still free? He would have been proud of his father and the children would have one less thing to pick on him about. And _if_ , for some unknown reason, he had been unable to visit his father, then why hadn’t his mother told him that he was still alive?

A strange lump forms in his chest. Merlin balls his hands into fists, digs his nails into his palms.

“She was just trying to protect you. The tension between magic and non-magic users has been building up for many years.”

Merlin unclenches his hands. “Uther’s a hypocrite. A blatant hypocrite and a liar. Everyone knows he used magic for Arthur’s birth.”

“And everybody knows that it was magic which killed Ygraine.” Will gets out of his bed and walks over to Merlin’s, snuggles under the covers, takes him into his arms. Merlin presses into his warmth.

“Don’t listen to the other children,” he whispers. “You are special, and even if you cannot tell them who you are, at least you know that _I_ understand. _I_ care. You can talk to me, Merlin. I’ll always be here.”

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

“Mad he is, that child, the way he always talks to himself – I’ve heard his mindless babble with mine own ears. The way he shifts around people, loses himself.” The old man’s voice sharply echoes off the chamber’s walls. He shakes his head. “This I see as the only way to cure him.”

“Are you absolutely certain that your eyes and your ears have not deceived you?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“You are certain that he lives in the village of Ealdor?”

“Yes.”

“One sorcerer should not be too much trouble.” King Uther turns towards one of the guards flanking his sides. “Send Arthur and a group of knights to Ealdor and have them return with the sorcerer.” The king nods his head, and the guard throws the old man a sack of gold coins.

The old man gives the king a polite bow and limps as he exits the room, shifting his weight onto his good leg.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Humming to himself. He likes that sound, the rhythm of a wordless tune strung in midair. It’s like magic. Joy’s like magic.

Merlin places his hand into the sack and cups a handful of grain into his palm. A few seeds sift through his fingers as he throws the feed into the large, open fenced area. The chickens _cluck-cluck_ as they peck at the earth.

“Hey,” Merlin suddenly hears behind him, and startled by the voice, the chickens quickly disperse throughout the yard. Uneaten feed laces the ground.

Merlin tosses the feed further into the yard to where the birds have scurried. “Smart chickens,” he remarks. He raises his eyebrow, throwing Will a disapproving look.

“I was _ten_ , and I was _hungry_ ,” Will pouts and he gives Merlin an elbow bump.

“And they _still_ haven’t forgiven you?” Merlin teases him.

“Nah,” Will replies, actually quite pleased with himself. “Actually, I’m surprised by how long it took for them to realize that it _wasn’t_ a bird egg defect. It was Old Man Simmons, that pesky ol’ snooping fellow, who finally ratted me out.” Will chuckles. “Boy, did my father have a fit!”

Will’s voice gradually becomes a distant, warped stream of sounds until all that remains is a whispered silence. And another sound slowly enters the extreme edge of his hearing. It is the sound of the soft pounding of horses’ hooves upon the moist ground. Tinkling. Dangling chains knocking against each other.

“Will?” Merlin tilts his head and listens. He feels a knot in the earth, a void in the air. Closer, coming closer. “Get my mother and warn the villagers. Someone’s coming.”

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_No. It’s not the loneliness or lack of food. He doesn’t even mind the silence, nor the cold and rough stone walls._

_No one but he talks to him; no one but he ever visits him, and when he is absent, those empty voids are filled with the soft patter of small animals scurrying through the darkness._ Where will they go? _he often wonders. Perhaps towards the light beyond these still walls._

_Why does no one come but he?_

_Mordred drums his fingers upon the ground. When will he come again? Why must he come? The mundane darkness makes it hard to gauge the days, but with the man comes light, the slow-burning torches of red - the only light he sees - and the dry smile and the dagger._

_The man wants to know what he likes so that he can take it away. No, no, he shan’t know about the light again, for once the man took it away, all that remained was his voice, resounding in the accursed darkness (and the smarting of the blade, but it’s important not to remember these things)._

_There is something else that the man has been taking, something that has now lost its meaning, but Mordred can’t remember (it’s important not to remember). There were these sounds, and there were these feelings beyond that which he feels now. But he’s lost something, and he can’t remember, for these feelings have become insignificant things of the past._

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.


	4. Chapter 4

_It’s the delicate perfume of the roses that she enjoys and the interwoven stems of vines creeping up the stone wall that she admires._

_“It’s lovely. Isn’t it?”_

_“Indeed,” Nimueh agrees as she comes up from behind._

_She continues her walk down the stone path and stops at a single red rose left on the stones, lying on its side. Her silk dress brushes across the ground as she picks it up. Ygraine closes her eyes and inhales the sweet perfume._

_“May I ask you for a favor?” she hesitantly asks._

_“Of course.”_

_Ygraine twirls the slender stem between her fingers and carefully glosses over the thorns._

_“You are my best friend, and for that I feel that I should confide in you my mind,” she begins, pondering the subtle affection of his love. She throws the blossom to Nimueh._

_There’s its heartbeat, still fluttering as it uses the last of its energy to sustain the bloom. To please and to beautify the world, the mere man sees the life of the rose. Yet fully aware of danger, roses had sprouted thorns…_

_“I fear that I cannot conceive.”_

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Will digs into the earth until his shovel strikes a hard object. Tossing the instrument aside, he uses his hands to remove the dirt from an earth-encrusted object, the top of a wooden chest, and tugs at the lid until it opens with a loud creak.

Inside are swords and daggers of various lengths with bejeweled scabbards. A thin layer of dust has dulled the metal and sunk into the individual links of several outfits of chainmail neatly tucked into the left corner. Numerous leather boots stand on the opposite side. Will sifts through the equipment and sets aside several swords.

“Where did all of this come from?” Merlin asks.

“My father was Camelot’s armourer… before the War,” Will mumbles as he shoves aside several dull red cloaks with faded golden dragon emblems. Mice have chewed at the frayed edges of the old fabric.

Amongst the tangled mess, Will’s hands land upon a small, plain silver box whose tarnished surface has been burnt by dark, black streaks of fire. His eyes hover over the seemingly harmless container and then quickly dart towards Merlin who has closed his eyes. He’s clenching his jaw, struggling to steady his breath…

_James, Henry’s son, Old Man Simmons’ grandson. To all of the villagers, he is the perfect boy, tall and muscular for his age, good in the fields, hard-working. That is the perfect side he shows only the adults. Merlin knows better…_

“I’m sorry,” Will says as he quickly buries the small box deep within the chest.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

When they arrive, the people are already waiting for them, piled into the small square. Some of them are armed with swords while others appear to be empty-handed, but Arthur suspects that daggers are hidden within the folds of their clothes.

The villagers whisper amongst themselves as they watch the seven knights on their steeds, each armed with crossbows, slowly trod into their square. The hand of one firmly grasps the blood-red flag of Camelot stamped with the golden crest of the dragon as it ripples in the wind.

But Merlin does not look at the knights. Instead, he focuses his attention upon three things: a blonde-haired boy, just a few years older than him, wearing a stoic expression with large dark bags beneath his eyes, a large cage behind the knights adorned with chains, and a peculiar feeling coming from a man in black attire— _the void_.

Merlin tilts his head, and a crease forms between his brows. The fabric of air seems to be curled around the man, and strange blue and gold tendrils of light whirl around his torso, loop around his arms and his legs, and thread between his fingers like an exotic display of light.

Merlin closes his eyes and delicately toys with the light, but he feels neither the thrumming nor the warmth of magic. There is no presence _at all_. It is just a darkness; like a black cocoon bound by tendrils of nothing-light protecting, concealing… hiding. Inside Merlin’s chest, his lungs constrict; his heartbeat rises as he begins to panic.

_Come out, come out, wherever you are…_

Merlin quickly reopens his eyes and wildly searches the crowd.

“What business brings a knight of Camelot to these lands?” an elderly woman asks.

The boy with golden-wheat hair lowers the crossbow to his side and dismounts his horse. His armor softly clinks as he approaches the woman.

“I, Prince Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon of Camelot, have reason to believe that a sorcerer resides among you.”

For just a moment, the noisy chatter of the crowd ceases; in their quaint village, where gossip spreads like wildfire, magic had become a story of the past, only whispered to children as nighttime tales, and those who merely mentioned the word were immediately exiled.

The man clad in black takes this as his opportunity to walk through the square. Although weaponless, he carries himself with utmost confidence –like that of nonchalance; his eyes are unwavering and his steps, slow and calculated. As he passes each person, the villagers murmur amongst themselves and tighten their hold on their weapons. If ever their knuckles were white, their teeth were whiter. The man looks down upon their mindless chatter with disgust, but as he nears Hunith and Will, a small smile pulls at the corner of his lips.

 _I know that you are here. You cannot hide from me,_ the voice resounds within Merlin’s head, his eyes still searching the crowd.

“There’re too many,” Will whispers into his ear.

Merlin quickly glances over at the knights, and on the edge of his mind, he memorizes the positions of the intruders: eight knights, one prince, an entire crowd of men, women, and children, most of whom he has known since his childhood – witnesses to what he must do.

“Whatever happens, take care of my mother,” Merlin whispers to Will. “Promise me?”

Will places his hand upon his shoulder and hesitantly takes a step back.

Suddenly, an uncomfortable pressure builds around Merlin’s neck. Instinctively, Merlin’s hand flies to his throat, and he takes in a shallow breath, struggles to swallow.

The man – he is looking directly at him.

“The boy!” he yells, brandishing his finger towards Merlin, and the knights immediately redirected their crossbows.

Arthur’s eyes settle upon the boy, a tall, lanky, thin black-haired boy just a year or two younger than him, an innocent… a perfect target for magic.

A woman runs towards the raven-haired boy and thrusts her body in front of his. When the knights train their crossbows on her, the man breaks eye contact with Merlin, and the cool, lush air rushes into Merlin’s chest.

Arthur extends his hand, motioning to the knights to hold, as he watches the woman protectively tighten her hold around the boy. She’s trying to hold him back, keep them together, but the boy is gently peeling away her fingers.

“Mother. Don’t—” Merlin begins in a hushed whisper.

The woman struggles to hold onto him. “He’s harmed no one!” she screams with tears running down her face.

Arthur narrows his eyes, and a pang of jealousy courses through his body.

This boy – this _sorcerer_ – has his mother?

Why… why did Arthur have to watch his…? Arthur was barely ten when she passed, barely old enough to understand the war, barely old enough to understand that Nimueh had betrayed them, but _just_ old enough to remember the tortured look in his father’s eyes as he watched her raft disappear down the twisting river.

Arthur is not angry; he is _furious_.

Yet somehow, his keeps his face composed and his voice calm when he delivers his message, and Arthur tells himself that it’s from years of experience. “I am giving you a chance to submit without force.”

The knights tilt their crossbows towards the mother and the sorcerer; their fingers tighten around the triggers.

Merlin closes his eyes for barely a second, using magic to sense his surroundings, the intensity stifling the air.

_Eight knights, one prince…_

Arthur watches the boy whisper into his woman’s ears. Something that he says convincesher to drop her arms, and as he takes a step away from her, she bows her head with tears still clinging to her eyes. The boy lightly brushes her arm with his hand before stepping aside.

“I submit,” Merlin says, staring at the ground. He schools his expression into a grim mask of stoicism and lifts his head; Arthur sees a strange glint of determination in the sorcerer’s – _not boy’s_ – eyes.

“Under one condition,” he pauses. “That no harm will come of this village.”

Arthur nods, and the sorcerer slowly walks towards him. The villagers murmur under their breaths as they part; Merlin does not look into their disgusted or shocked faces. Upon reaching Arthur, he submissively bows his head, and although his eyes dart between the ground and the large cage with behind Arthur, he is not worried about the public humiliation or the journey to Camelot.

 _Keep safe_ , he had whispered to his mother, for he saw giving himself up as the only way…

Whistling – a smooth, cutting whistling – the fabric of the air is torn. Merlin’s eyes turn towards the arrow — _just in time_ — and it falls just inches from his mother’s head.

That’s when the sky begins to rain with arrows.

A flurry of panic overcomes the crowd as men and women scatter aimlessly in various directions, screaming for their children; several knights dismount their steeds and rummage through the people, harshly tossing them aside without a second thought.

Merlin finds himself running amongst the tangle of people. _Where’s Will? Where’s Hunith?_

Another crossbow is aimed at him— Merlin instinctively raises his hand towards his assailant, and his fingertips thrum from the warm rush of magic. But then he looks into the knight’s eyes.

This crossbow belongs to a boy several years younger than he. Holding the weapon securely with his finger poised on the trigger, the boy’s eyes are trained on his head— yet his finger does not move; in fact, Merlin notices that the boy seems to release the tension in his finger, relax his hold on the weapon as he continues to stare into his eyes. A crease forms between his brows, and he parts his lips, as though he is struggling to hold back a question, _or alert the other knights_.

“I—” the boy barely musters before Merlin disarms him and sends him flying through the air. He cringes as he hears a sickening crack when the frightened horse tramples the boy’s limp body. Merlin stands there dumbly, staring at the mangled body of the life he has just taken, and he feels the metallic pang of death – _again_. He had promised to protect his village if it was ever attacked again, but this time is different; this time they are in danger because of _him_.

“Over there!” a knight yells over the clamor of the crowd, but he is barely able to take a step before Merlin sends him hurling to the ground. Stopping in the center of the square, Merlin closes his eyes, for a second – just a second— _Where’s Hunith? Where’s Will?_

A woman’s scream. Merlin turns his head towards the sound and sees a dagger held up to a woman’s throat, his mother’s. Arthur brandishes the blade.

_No!_

Merlin rushes through the crowd and raises his hands in defeat. Arthur’s hand, curled around the handle, tightens.

“Stop!” Merlin yells, but his voice cannot be heard amongst the cacophony of screaming people. He pushes past a young child wailing for her mother. “Don’t hurt her!” he screams as tears form in his eyes.

Arthur tilts his head. There’s a dab of dirt on the boy’s face, slightly below his cheekbone. It’s messy and gooey and somehow makes Arthur think of a nine-year old playing in the dirt near his home.

_…Mother encourages him by giving him last months’ broken pot with which he can dig into the moist ground. “Don’t you worry— Mummy will be back soon, sweetie,” she says before Father appears and pulls him away from his knightless, reign-less mud horse to some “more-important and less time-wasting appointment.” These are words that he isn’t old enough to understand but he knows their implications…_

Arthur’s hand, meticulously trained in the art of the sword, slightly trembles, and sweat builds around the handle; he has to tighten his grip to prevent the smooth metal from slipping from his fingers.

_…Mother, he loves mother and her wheat-golden hair. “Just like mine, Arthur, you’re just like me, but you have your father’s might,” she whispers, caressing deep furrows into his hair…_

Arthur pushes the woman aside. With a soft thump she falls upon the ground, weeping.

In the foreground, Merlin can hear the screams of the villagers returned by the knights’ snarls, and the crude ripping of flesh. The ground is damp, but not with rain – with _blood_ , like an infected, oozing sore. The skin of the earth is overturned, wounded by the unforgiving bite of rage.

Amidst the muddled confusion and chaos, Merlin cautiously approaches Arthur.

Like a ball of lead, the heavy dagger falls from its master’s grip to the ground and Arthur gasps, for he is dumbfounded by what he has just done—literally thrown away his last form of protection as he is approached by the sorcerer – _not the boy_.

And for a brief second their eyes meet. Beyond the tight lips and stoic expression, Merlin can hear the harsh command of the king’s tongue upon his son, the weighted duty of a prince to his people. He can feel the fierce grip of law, and he understands the muddled line between right and wrong, Arthur’s torn loyalty between his people and himself. Merlin pities him, the prince, Arthur, and it makes him wonder who the victim actually is.

The snapping of twigs causes Arthur to avert his eyes—

The void nears Merlin, his magic prickles, and his body is suddenly held in place by some invisible force. Instinctively, the gold warms his eyes, and in Merlin’s mind he imagines the man being tossed to the ground…

 _Nothing_.

Sweat drips from Merlin’s brow. The man is coming closer, and the pressure is steadily building around his throat.

Merlin’s vision begins to fade; he tries for another spell. The man is closer, _closer_.

A sharp pain in his back, someone screams.

Darkness.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_It is too silent and too dark,_ his foggy mind muses as he resurfaces from the murky depths of blackness. And something smells strangely of fetid water. Is that the slight rustle of leaves he hears? Is this death?

As if through a tunnel, nonsensical words echo in the darkness. He tries to open his eyes, but a heavy weight presses upon him, upon his eyelids and his consciousness. A few minutes later, it finally dawns upon him that the voices are talking about him, but his clouded mind confuses his thoughts and the meaning of their words is quickly lost.

So he listens to his heartbeat, the only constant in this muddled black, and it is a dull thump against the dumb silence. Sometime in the darkness, he disappears.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

When Merlin resurfaces, he opens his bleary eyes to an elderly man hovering above his head.

“I’m dressing your wound,” the old man says, but his words make no sense. Merlin tries to lift his head, but it’s too heavy and he plops back down upon a soft pillow and closes his eyes. The old man is muttering to himself.

Merlin can hear the sound of the old man’s shoes scuffing the stone floor; he can feel his wrinkled hand lift his hand and his shaking fingers brush against his wrist. The old man rolls up his sleeves.

“Forgive me,” he whispers.

_Click._

And the darkness consumes Merlin again.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_Merlin clenches his hands. His nails dig deep furrows into the earth, and magic bristles under his skin._ He’s not worth it _, Merlin tells himself as dirt cakes his nails and tears prick his eyes._

 _He wants to use magic. He wants to toss James upon the ground. Would_ he _enjoy that?_

_Rain comes thundering down upon the land._

_“That would make you just as bad as him,” his mother tells him when he comes home, shivering, soaked to the bone, but Merlin doesn’t want to accept the truth. He is still seething, and the fantasies in his head are becoming ever more detailed. Merlin tugs at his wet socks._

_“Come here, my boy,” she says, and Merlin stands up and walks to his mother who is sitting by the fire. Hunith takes him into her warm embrace. “Mummy loves you very much. Don’t you ever forget that.”_

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

As Merlin sits up, he rubs his back up against the rough stone behind him and winces from the sharp pain that runs down his spine. Carefully feeling for the dull sore on his back, his fingers land on a bandage tightly wound around his torso. Merlin opens his eyes.

“Are you dead?” a girl’s voice asks.

Merlin looks around, and it takes a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the dim torchlight.

A girl with dark hazelnut hair and a small, round nose is comfortably sitting cross-legged against the stone wall in a cell directly across from him. She’s staring intensely at him with a curious expression on her face as she calmly, rhythmically strokes the raven-black hair of a younger boy who is whimpering in his sleep.

“Excuse me?” Merlin groggily questions as he stands upon his shaking legs. Suddenly the ground seems to shift, and he plops back down and closes his heavy eyes.

“Careful there,” the girl hesitantly warns him, a little too late. “You look awful.”

“Thanks,” Merlin sarcastically mutters as he rubs his throbbing temples.

“Thought you were dead when they first brought you here,” the girl muses.

Merlin huffs and then gives the girl a small smile.

“Takes much more than a slight dagger wound to kill me,” he jokes.

“Don’t say things like that so lightly,” she snaps at him, and after seeing him flinch at her tone, her voice takes a softer tone. “I’m sorry,” she says as she messes with the frayed strings of her faded red bodice. “We don’t joke about those things around here.”

Merlin nods his head, and for a few moments they sit in silence; the boy’s even breaths and the monotonous crackling whisper of wall torches fill the silence.

“They didn’t use to have those,” the girl suddenly says, waving her arms towards the sources of light. “It used to be nothing but darkness.” As she points towards the torches, her thin sleeves roll up, and Merlin’s eyes settle upon two large metal cuffs around the girl’s wrists. The girl seems not to notice, however, and her eyes settle on something in the distance, beyond the walls.

“How long have you been here?” Merlin asks as he looks past the cell bars down a long hallway of cells with rock walls adorned with torchlights between each. He listens for movement, the chattering of the guards— No one but he and the girl and the sleeping boy seem to be in this place.

Shrugging her bony shoulders, she replies, “A while.”

“When was the last time you had something to eat?”

She ignores his question. After another moment of silence, Merlin shivers as a cold draft whips through his cell. He nervously looks around the place again. Merlin listens. No one but he, the girl, and the sleeping boy.

He listens, there’s nothing else. There’s nothing else. _There’s nothing else!_

Merlin quickly stands up and slightly sways from head rush, but he ignores the uneasy sensation and focuses his eyes upon the metal bars, willing them to break apart, willing them to be destroyed.

 _Nothing_.

Merlin extends his arm towards the iron, and his sleeve slightly rolls up, revealing a thick, grey manacle with strange runes engraved into its cold surface. He checks his other arm – there’s another. Merlin nervously runs his fingers through his hair, and as he paces the cell, his head throbs terribly, and his legs are awfully unsteady. Merlin presses his back against the wall and touches the rough surface with his fingers. Where is the thrumming? Where is the voice of the rock?

“Stop it,” he dimly hears the girl in the background, but Merlin it too immersed within his own thoughts to pay attention to her. “I said _stop it_.”

“You don’t understand,” he despairs. Merlin closes his eyes and slowly grazes his fingers over the cold stone. Slowly slumping down to the ground, he wraps his arms around his legs, and listens to his heartbeat and the nervous rasp of his panicked breaths.

His magic bristles inside his veins, waiting to be used, wanting to be used. But where has it gone? _Unreachable, distant, detached._

And… and this _silence!_

Merlin thought he understood silence as the calm before a storm or the stillness of the air just before the sun peaked above the horizon. Silence was like an entire village sleeping, like darkness, and Merlin thought he understood, but silence wasn’t really a void, for in the darkness there was the high-pitched ringing of the stars, for in the moment before dawn there was the low grumbling of the cold earth, for in that intake of breathe before a storm, there was the hushed whisper.

“You’re a powerful one, aren’t you?” Merlin hears another voice, the boy’s.

With his eyes closed, Merlin methodically rocks back and forth, back and forth. It’s… _gone_?

“It’s just beyond our control,” the girl tells him. “I had magic.”

Merlin does not listen to their words as he wrapped in his own cloak of misery.

This _silence_... it is different. Beneath the cold drafts of air, beyond the rough stone walls and the angry, burning flames, there is nothing. Where have the textures of feeling gone? It’s as if though a foggy scrim is covering the air, dulling his sense of the world, blurring his sense of reality. What is real?

“Listen to me!” the girls yells. Her voice harshly echoes off the stone walls. “Look. I know that it’s overwhelming. Listen to me,” she firmly repeats, and Merlin opens his eyes and turns his head towards at her. “You’re in Camelot, in the dungeons actually,” she answers his aforementioned question. “They’re spelled to repress magic. Ironic, isn’t it?”

Merlin slowly blinks as slowly processes the meaning of her words.

“This is reality, everything you see is here. You’re not mad,” she tries to assure him. She raises her hand.

“Hi, I’m Freya.” She waits for a response.

“I-I’m Merlin.”

Freya’s eyes widen. “You’re from Ealdor, aren’t you?”

“Do I know you?” Merlin rubs his throbbing temples.

Freya nods her head, and her brown curls brush against her shoulders. “When you were very young I had a little, well, _slight_ affection for you, but as I said you were young and probably won’t remember. My father and I left Ealdor for Camelot when the Drought came upon the land. That was the last time I saw you.”

“You knew Will, then, right? Have you seen him or my mother?” Merlin eagerly asks.

Freya frowns. “They don’t have magic, so they wouldn’t be here,” she tells him. “Anyway, Mordred would know more about him than me. Will and Mordred go far, far back…”

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_“You know too, too much,” the man growls at himself as he paces the small cell. “It’s just so much wasted power,” he says, wringing his hands before him. More pacing, mumbling, deciding, dust turning on the dirt-powdered dungeon floor._

_When the man speaks next, Mordred notices a change in his tone and even the expression on his face. His voice is much harsher, much firmer; the angry creases between his brows deepen._

_“He mustn’t tell them, he’s bound to find out.”_

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.


	5. Chapter 5

Like a cat furiously playing with a knotted skein of yarn, it tangles between her fingers; it has taken her days to unravel this mess of magic, but now she is quite pleased.

“Are you ready?” she asks, an inflection of doubt lacing her tone.

Ygraine takes Nimueh’s hands in hers. “I have never been more ready. Nor have I been any more certain.”

…

…

_The throne room has been redressed with large wooden tables and numerous chairs. Bards play in the corner, and the candle-lit chandeliers and candelabras give off a more vibrant glow. The festive atmosphere is spiced with wine and merriment, and servants bustle from table to table, quickly refilling the knights’ goblets, and somewhere among many voices Ygraine can hear Uther’s laughter. Even Balinor, who has lately been in a glum mood, seems to be enjoying himself._

_Ygraine waves away a servant who presents her with a goblet of wine. “I want to remember every moment,” she tells him, smiling as she places a careful hand upon her swollen stomach._

_…_

_…_

_“A toast to the Queen and the High priestess, Nimueh!” Uther proclaims, proudly raising his glass._

_…_

_…_

_Blood stains the silken white covers, and Ygraine’s face is lined with beads of sweat, but she smiles at the baby nestled in her arms, so, so small._

_“My baby,” she whispers, and a small hand tightly grips her finger. “Arthur.”_

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Little Caedmon can’t stop levitating everything he touches three feet into the air. The little children of the village giggle at the various pots and pans and even dirt, all of which lazily dangle in midair like that’s where they belong. Mordred says nothing.

Today, it is Caedmon’s magic’s turn to act up, but they know that it will be someone else tomorrow. It is a game they play, each guessing who will be next. Will he levitate objects? Will he turn small things into dirt? Will he make stuff invisible? Caedmon _always_ levitates objects. Of course, the pots and pans eventually do fall from the sky, and then it became a game of dogging the falling debris. Mordred says nothing.

Gossip spreads amongst the children. As they pass the tents, which are separated from the village, they whisper about a young boy named Edwin who accidentally set fire to his tent, burning his parents and half his own body. He was a bloody mess when they finally retrieved him from the flames, and his parents – not as fortunate. Since then, fire starters have been kept separate from the other tents.

Mordred is a fire starter.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Mother tells him that he is special and talented and that he should let no one tell him otherwise. “Just try to control it,” she whispers to him while reassuringly patting his back, and he wants to believe her, but he knows that she can never truly understand because no one in his village possesses a thread of magic. They fear it, and it is a lonely place he lives, magic-less and bland.

Yet the fire burns within him. They begin as innocent little sparks before they turn into flames and become _fire_. He knows whenever the fire wants out, and he tries desperately to contain the flames, but they continue to burn and scorch his mind, and they toy with him like a never-ending game, taunting him, taunting him. Their village shuns magic users, although the practice is not banned, and his parents’ cover stories are gradually becoming more and more unbelievable.

The other children like to pick on him because he is so small, but no one ever notices; no one ever cares. The stronger his wrath grows, the higher his flames rise. Yet he remains silent and dumb, and after the incident he runs away, leaving the fires burning behind him, the whispered searing of the flames mocking him, mocking him. He isn’t good enough, he isn’t. He doesn’t deserve to live, they did, _they did._

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Mordred searches the land for someone like him. At night, when he finds himself alone, he makes camp in some foreign wood and collects the twigs and the courage to build a fire.

His magic is now… easier to contain, but sometimes his dreaming mind plays tricks on him and old Mr. Potter is running after him, brandishing a lighted torch, screaming – he is _screaming_ , “You get a taste of your own medicine!” Before the elderly man reaches him, Mordred stops and wheels around with a strange glint of determination flickering in his eyes, and he watches the torch-fire run down the wood’s thick spine and weave its way up the man’s arm, ‘round his head. The old man’s mouth is contorted in a voiceless scream as the flames and black smoke quickly engulf his body… when Mordred awakes, the scent of charred flesh and burnt wood lingers in his nose.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

He finds _her_ during one of his wanderings, but magic-children are the first he meets, and they crowd around Mordred, their eyes are joyful and excited, eager to play with their new arrival.

“What’s your name?” one asks, tugging on his worn shirt.

“I have magic, too!” another enthusiastically shouts as he bounces up and down, trying to get a good look at him because Mordred is so small.

“Where’d you come from?”

“Children!” a man’s deep voice calls from the distance, and the children quickly flock around him. The man raises his dark right hand with his palm facing Mordred. The long folds of his maroon-colored cloak shift in the gentle breeze.

“Wil _cume_ ,” he says.

Mordred slowly blinks and stares at the man, whose hood gently cups his face with the forest-brown eyes and protects his smooth head. Soft lines of age have just begun to wrinkle around his mouth and forehead. A small wooden medallion hangs around his neck, and it is intricately carved by a hand too delicately to be human – _magic_.

“I am Aglain, and these are of our children,” he extends his arms around them and smiles. “They sensed your coming, as did I.”

Mordred finds his voice to be quite calming, deep, soothing.

“We do not get many visitors these days,” he continues. “Are you from another Order?”

He shakes his head.

“You are welcome to spend the night, or longer if you must.”

Mordred gives the man a polite nod of his head before turning around and running into the woods. Beneath his feet, the loud crackle of leaves overpowers the fading voices of the children, and the urge to turn back almost becomes too great.

 _Too many... too many,_ he tells himself, and Mordred does not think that he will ever return, but _she_ will bring him back.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Overlooking the waters on the grasses of a hill, Mordred dangles his bare feet, and with his magic feels the rhythmic undulations of the tide softly curling around the rim of the lake. Absentmindedly, he cups his hand and circles his wrist like an oar pushing against the waters, and a swirling orb of water lifts from the lake. A confused fish splashes around inside the pulsating sphere.

When shesits beside him, he focuses his attention upon the sun, the sky— tomorrow, he feels that it will rain.

 _You are controlling it very well_ , she compliments telepathically. _Magic understands you more than it did me at your age._

Mordred turns his head towards hers, and she smiles… it is timeless, but the thoughts behind her words are one of many years, and he knows that magic has cleverly concealed her true age. As Mordred gently looks into her mind, he senses that she is keeping a secret, large and tangible – not cloudy and amorphous— and doesn’t prod any further because he understands.

His eyes return to the salmon colored fish.

 _The children wonder where you are. They can’t stop talking about you._ He feels the uncertainty in her mind, the slight hesitation of her inward voice echoing inside his head.

When she suddenly touches his hand, the water orb collapses, and the fish plops back into the lake.

 _I’m sorry_.

She begins to pull away her hand, but Mordred grasps her fingers.

_I’m just not use to… people._

Nimueh’s eyes open with shock as the gruff voice vibrates through her mind, and a fraction of his thoughts flood her head – _there_ , a subtle hint of loneliness – but as she looks further into his mind, he quickly guards himself from hers, and a sharp sting whips her mind.

 _I have to return to the village now,_ she tells him as she draws her hand back and stands up. She brushes off dirt from her dark-red dress and disappears into the woods.

And Mordred follows behind her.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

When Nimueh brings him back to their camp, Aglain senses that something is wrong with the boy because he does not return the children’s greetings –he doesn’t speak at all – but Aglain does not say anything as he spoons the porridge out of the hot tureen, and pours it into the boy’s bowl, and sits him around the large fire because Nimueh must have brought him here for a reason, so he mustn’t intervene.

When he finishes serving the other children, the boy is gone.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

He returns every night—he always does—Aglain has learned.

Aglain used to worry about him. Once, he had even sent a small group out into the woods at dusk to search for the boy, but they returned in the evening, empty-handed.

Early the next morning, when Aglain peeked into the boy’s tent, he found the boy asleep him in his bed with drops of dew still clinging to his hair and a small golden flower threaded between his fingers.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

When the sun peaks above the horizon and morning’s dew has just blanketed the earth, he silently wanders off into the woods where he listens to the trees and learns each of their voices: the gargantuan yews a depth throated bellow, the white willow a silky melody, the crabapple a lively whistle. On the surface, one can only hear the groaning and creaking of their ancient limbs, but inside, hidden deeply within the aged layers of bark, _oh_ , Mordred loves their voices, and he learns the history of land.

Sometimes he returns late at night, sometimes early the next morning, and sometimes, as he dangles his feet over the hill, he debates whether or not he should leave the village. There are too many, too many young – and they don’t _know_.

But he always returns because of _her._

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

When Uther appoints Nimueh as High Priestess, Mordred is confused. Granted, the Camelot meetings could be quite boring, and yes, it was a long day’s journey to the great city, but what he can’t understand is why she brings him and _only_ him, and not Aglain or Morgause or the other High Priests. He asks Nimueh once, and she tells him that attending the meetings is a great honor – and nothing more – but Mordred can tell that deep recesses of her mind, she is hiding something.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

At one of the meetings, he meets Will, whose father is the most skilled blacksmith in all of the kingdoms. He’s roughly Mordred’s age, and their feelings about Uther are mutual (although Will’s reason differs from his – Will doesn’t like that Uther always gets the best, most luxurious things; Mordred senses a darkness, but he keeps his thoughts to himself and says nothing). Mordred likes Will.

Sometimes during the meetings they slip out of the courtroom and peek into hidden chambers. Will tells Mordred that he knows the castle better than anyone else—maybe even better than the king himself –because he lives in a cottage near the castle, and even though it is well guarded, sleuth Will has carefully observed their movements and knows his way around them.

“They have a routine – you just have to wait for him to go around there and… _go_!” he whispers to a smiling Mordred as they run across a corridor and slip through a door.

One time, they find themselves in front of the prince’s chamber.

“Come on,” Will whines. “Open up,” he gestures to the door.

 _It’s spelled,_ Mordred plainly tells Will.

“Surely _you_ can break the spell,” Will nudges him, and Mordred’s cheeks turn a soft red as the door opens.

Will rushes into the room and immediately begins bouncing on the flamboyant bed with big pillows and silky sheets.

 _Be quiet,_ Mordred warns him. _And stop messing up that bed._

“Oh, _come_ _on_. Loosen up a bit,” Will tells him as he bounces one final big bounce and scurries around the room.

Later, Will is accused of stealing a precious comb from the room. When asked how he had entered the chamber in the first place, Nimueh intervenes and says that had she had forgotten to place a spell upon the lock. Mordred says nothing.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

When she thinks that he is asleep, Nimueh enters his tent one day and delicately whispers into his ear, tickling his neck with her breath as she speaks, _I have known no one at such a young age to have understood magic as clearly as you. You are_ him, _and this will be our secret._

After she leaves, Mordred listens for her receding footsteps and runs into the woods.

_No, no, no…_

That’s when he meets _her._

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

She is sitting on the log in a heavily wooded area, rubbing her eyes and crying, looking so very, very tired. The tall trees seem to lean in around the small clearing, concealing the area, but Mordred senses the coy touch of magic which surrounds her, subtle and subdued, and he can tell that she does not practice although she possesses the art… and somehow her magic feels familiar to him.

 _Are you alright?_ he hesitantly asks as he slowly approaches the girl with hazelnut hair. A small, golden flower is tucked into a lock just above her ear. Her head is bowed and hair is draped over the side of her face, so Mordred can’t see her tear-stained eyes.

She sniffs and doesn’t look up at him and weakly between sobs she replies, “I’m fine.”

Mordred sits beside her on the log, not too close that she feels that he is an intruder and not too far away that she feels that he is ignoring her. He folds his hands in his lap and waits.

“I don’t understand,” she hiccups, “why they don’t like me.”

 _Who?_ Mordred dares to ask.

The girl turns her head towards his and looks at him; she is just slightly younger than him, and she has beautiful mahogany eyes. She holds his gaze for a moment, and Mordred thinks that she will reveal her secret, but she eventually tears her eyes from his.

“I shouldn’t say,” she whispers as if fearing that someone is looking over their shoulders. “I want to, but I can’t; I’m not supposed to be here.”

With her palms, she quickly away her tears and sighs.

Mordred shifts slightly closer to her and places his hand upon her lap.

_I understand._

For a few moments, they sit together, and he listens to her uneven breaths calm and feels her uneasiness slip away like the air brushing through the leaves. He closes his eyes and hears the crackling of leaves beneath scurrying squirrels, takes in a deep breath, and touches the white-washed canvas of sky. He becomes lost again, in the wide expanse of time.

A slight squeeze of her hand around his brings him back.

“I need to go now,” she tells him, and as she lets go of his hand and stands up, she takes the golden flower out of her hair and places it into his hand and whispers, “Thank you.”

Mordred says nothing as he watches her disappear into the woods.

He hasn’t even learned her name.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

A few days later, he finds his way back into the hidden area.

“You’ve come back.”

_I didn’t want you to feel alone._

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Over the course of the year, Mordred meets her in the same place in the woods and on the log not far from the druid village, and although the woods are ever-changing as the seasons wear on, she is always, _always_ tired.

Mordred never asks but listens; they hardly speak and even if they do, it is about something common like the weather or the squirrels scurrying up the trees, but never themselves, and through this silence, they come to understand each other and names nor titles nor lineage, are needed tofor them to _understand_.

He thinks that he understands her because of the feelings he senses from the familiar hint of magic she possesses, but he eventually comes to realize that he understands her _feelings_ , but not the _reasons_ behind them. Mordred never asks.

Only one time does she asks about his past, and Mordred says nothing.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

…

…

…

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

She is always there, in the little clearing hidden from view on the log, but this time she is not crying; she smiles as him, and it lights up her face, but dark lines pull at the skin beneath her eyes.

“I’m better now, almost, I think. Mother’s tried to make me better,” she tells him as she fiddles with the lace lining on her cream-colored dress – fine lace that Mordred knows is only made in Camelot.

“I still can’t sleep,” she continues, and after a moment’s hesitation, she adds, “at least not without magic. Mother doesn’t visit me often, and I don’t understand.”

The girl turns towards him, and Mordred can see the tears forming in her eyes.

“I don’t have anyone.” She kicks a stone across the small clearing.

Her words strike Mordred because he understands her more than she can ever know. A small burn on his left thigh is all that is left from the past, the past he wants to forget, the past he sees whenever he closes his eyes, their faces, _their faces_ , their mouths wide open in voiceless screams, and the smell, _oh,_ _the_ _smell_ …

But he has Nimueh now, and she is like a mother to him, and she has no one.

“I can’t sleep,” she despairs, and he can see the desperation lingering in her eyes.

 _I can help you,_ he tells her, taking her hand into his.

From nature, he steals the energy for her to sleep and gradually her eyes begin to close, her chin drops down to her chest, and body slumps sideways into his lap; her hazelnut hair fans over his thighs and beneath the throes of sleep, her mind wanders. Mordred delicately touches her consciousness with his magic.

_The edges are cloudy, and he cannot yet clearly see her face but knows that it is of a woman with dark black hair. Torch sconces softly cast her shadow upon the wall behind her- she’s in a castle – and the red and golden flag of Camelot hangs behind her. The blurry scene gradually clears, and as her face comes into view, a feeling of longing touches him. It is Nimueh._

_“I want to be with you,” she says, and Mordred thinks that this is the most beautiful voice he’s heard –are these_ his _thoughts?_

In the girl’s dream, their consciousnesses are intertwined, and Mordred finds it increasingly harder to discern his thoughts from hers as he lingers, and the meaning behind Nimueh’s words touch Mordred like they are feelings of his own.

 _“But we mustn’t be seen together. I’m sorry. I love you,” Nimueh says as she plants a kiss upon her forehead – or is it his? and tears begin falling down his – no,_ her _— cheeks._

_“Mummy loves you very much, Kara.”_

Mordred quickly, but carefully, retreats from Kara’s mind, and he clenches his fists, disgusted by the thought that Nimueh has neglected her sick daughter while treating him as her son. Mordred has never seen Kara in Camelot, and no one has ever spoken of a daughter by Nimueh – what reason has she to hide her own daughter’s existence? Anger wells up into his chest. _Betrayal_. Nimueh is like a mother to him, but _not to her own daughter_.

A small spark alights not far from the log, and Mordred panics, and the flames rise higher – the dead leaves crackle, blacken and curl, and a squirrel frantically scurries up a tree; Mordred’s hands are damp and tremble as they thread through the girl’s hair – but he closes his eyes and takes in deep breaths, and the fire eventually expires.

As the hours pass and the sun begins to cast long shadows upon the ground, Mordred calms himself and watches the leaves fall from the orange and brown speckled trees.

“Kara,” he whispers and tests her name on his tongue, and it feels curious— but not foreign. Has this new knowledge changed anything between them? _No_ ,hedeterminatelydecides _._ Her name feels right on his tongue.

Before the first star shines, Mordred awakens Kara.

“Thank you,” she says, rubbing sleep out of her eyes.

And he watches her disappear into the woods.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, but I’ll leave you alone now if that’s what you want._ Nimueh’s resounds in his head, but Mordred quickly shuts her out.

He’s been avoiding her for several weeks now. Early in the morning he goes to the small clearing, only to find it empty. She’s never there; she’s gone.

 _Where is she?_ He angrily voices in Nimueh’s mind and she is shocked by Mordred’s sudden fury. Before she is even able to ask, several images of her daughter in the woods with him flash through her mind.

_I can’t find her._

He runs.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_In the beginning, she doesn’t notice him, and Mordred understands._

_Eventually she does see him, and Mordred is glad that he’s finally found someone like himself – for they are all now equals in this world—but she is a sad soul and doesn’t understand herself, and Mordred will help her, Freya._

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.


	6. Chapter 6

_“I’ve had enough,” Ygraine mumbles as pushes her chair away from the table, her plate still filled with thin slices of venison. She stands up, but is hunched over. Using one hand to clamp the table’s edge and the other to clutch her stomach, she barely makes it under the bed’s soft covers, and with an exaggerated sigh, closes her eyes._

_“You need to eat, dear,” Nimueh sighs as she looks between the uneaten plate and the slow rising of the covers over Ygraine’s chest. “You need your strength.”_

_“I’ll sleep it off,” she mutters._

_Nimueh opens her mouth to say something but decides otherwise. She wants to tell her that she’s dreadfully ill, that she’s weakening day by day, that nothing’s worked – not even magic. Instead, she stands up and sits on the bed beside Ygraine and rubs her hands until her soft snores fill the room. Closing the door softly behind her, Nimueh sits on a large stone bench before Young Arthur comes around the corner. Nimueh stands up and greets him._

_“How is mum?” he tugs on her dress and eagerly searches her eyes. “Tell me,” he insists._

_Nimueh lightly brushes her hand over his golden locks and then protectively tucks him into her side._

_“She’s just a little ill, dear. You know that I will do anything within my power to make her better.” Nimueh hugs him closer, and her magic touches his consciousness; his small heartbeat is fluttering. “Do you trust me, Arthur Pendragon?”_

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_Thick clouds of indecision blur the pictures in the stone, and when the images finally surface, they quickly disappear. She has looked at this stone for several hours, and it has yet to show her anything useful. Now angered, Nimueh strikes the crystal, and it shatters into thousands of moon-crescent slivers; the broken images disappear from the stone’s fragments._

_The flash of anger that wracked its way through her body calms into the cave’s whispered silence._

_Nimueh closes her eyes and clears her mind-_

Eleven year old Arthur standing in the center of the arena, glowing, victorious… Ygraine delicately brushing his golden hair; dark circles hanging below her eyes… Uther and Ygraine holding hands… Ygraine is asleep; her body is frightfully thin, and Uther is beside her, softly rubbing her arm… The hollow rage in Uther’s eyes, tears clinging to Arthur’s eyes as the raft slowly floats away…

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Shafts of light, cutting through the thin cracks in the stone walls, dot the gritty floor, and a cold draft of air whips through the dungeon, whispering through the walls. Merlin shivers, hugs his arms closer to his body and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to fall back asleep among his nonsensical nightmares.

Suddenly a bloodcurdling scream rips through the dungeons. Merlin shakes awake. Another scream. Merlin covers his ears and wildly looks around; Mordred is staring back at him.

“It’s an execution, Merlin. He’s taking her magic.”

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

One night he dreams of the sound of ocean in his ears, rolling in and out. It feels like breathing, like the even pulse of a tide, and for just a moment, time seems to slow, and he dreams of the cadence of an ocean (but it’s in the sky).

_Merlin. Merlin. Merlin._

A deep, rumbling voice chants his name, and Merlin lifts his head towards a dragon whose shining scales playfully throw light upon the dark crevasses of a torch-lit cave.

_Come to me._

In what Merlin thinks is a dream, he smiles and wonders about the deep-throated tone of the voice, but when he awakens, he remembers nothing but the calling of his name, echoing in the vast distance.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Time matters not in this world of silence and monotony. The boy Mordred and the girl Freya now hardly speak to him, so Merlin drums his fingers upon the stone floor, speckled with dabs of dirt, to imitate the stones. _Cold_ _stones drone, didn’t they_? And the fire used to hum. So he hums wordless tunes to the flames and to himself and taps the floor with his fingers until the silence is filled with what he pretends is magic.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

How long has it been? _How long?_

Magic tries to resurface, but it scorches his veins. _How long?_ Merlin has lost count of the days but never of the stones. He knows their numbers by heart, and they are like a poem to him, endless and winding, twisting around his head and curling beneath his feet.

He twirls the magic-suppressing cuffs around his wrist, and his eyes burn from unused magic.

_How many days?_

Merlin stands upon his shaking legs, sneezes as dust and dirt are whiffed into the soundless air, and uses the rough, uneven walls as support. _Twirling, twirling,_ the cuffs cut into the aggravated skin ‘round his wrists – but he barely notices its bite anymore – and he stares at the iron bars, extends his arm—

 _No_ , he jerks his arm away and kicks a small pile of dirt across the ground. Merlin peeks back at the bars.

But just as the warmth begins to glow behind his eyes, a sharp sting runs through his body, and he falls to the ground, stunned and breathless.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_Merlin. Merlin. Merlin._

_Come to me, come to me._

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Boots scuff across the dirt-speckled ground, the latch sharply clicks as the key is turned, and the iron scrapes again the stone, which creates a high-pitched squeak as the cell is opened. Two guards enter: both tall and muscular with dark smudges upon their hardened expressions, and chainmail covers their bodies. Each are armed with swords hanging on their sides.

Merlin doesn’t notice them until their calloused hands harshly hoist him onto his feet and pull him out of his cell; he is far too focused on counting the stones, twirling the cuffs ‘round his bloodied wrists. Weakened from several days without food, the thought of fighting back comes to mind – too late – and the knights tightly grip his forearms as they half-drag half-lead him into a small room and then throw him upon the ground. Merlin sees stars.

One of the knights pulls him upright and sits him into a chair. Merlin tries to stand up, but the knight harshly presses upon on his shoulders and proceeds to tightly bind his arms around the chair’s spine.

“Damned scum,” the knight mutters as he ties the final knot in the ropes and messily rolls up each of his sleeves, slightly cutting off the blood circulation in his arms. The knights exit the room and close the door.

Silence.

As Merlin sits uncomfortably in the chair, his eyes flicker nervously around the small chamber towards the candelabras, the thick, wooden table, and the empty chair in front of him. He listens – no one, _nothing_. After quickly assessing his surroundings and deciding that no one is around, he attempts to reach for his magic, and he shuts his eyes, evenly breathes in and out, in and _out_. In his mind, he searches for that light – and it is still there, just beyond his reach. Just a little further…

A man’s gruff, deep voice abruptly disrupts Merlin’s concentration. He quickly opens his eyes and finds a middle-aged man with a short, graying beard, and sharp, cold eyes staring at him.

“You won’t find anything there.” A smile creeps upon his lips—more like a grimace, Merlin thinks. “I am the Witchfinder, but those closest to me call me Aredian. I am sure we will get to know each other very well.”

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

The hand that carefully holds the pommel slowly slides the sharp edge up and down the length of his arm. It tickles, but at the same time, the cool temperature of the metal sends prickles down his spine, and Merlin’s breath quickens. He wants to turn to look behind him, but rope holds him back, and all he can see is the empty wooden chair in front of him, all he can feel is the warmth of the main’s breath upon the back of neck, the thick beads of sweat rolling down his back, sinking into his dark blue shirt and seeping into his suede jacket – all he can hear are his uneven rasps and the candelabras’ flames hissing in the corner.

“ _Emrys,”_ Aredian whispers into his ear.

Merlin hasn’t a moment to think before the blade sharply cuts into his skin.

And he _screams_.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

How long has it been? _How long?_

It is wrong that it doesn’t bother him anymore? Not the harsh sting of the blade boring into his ruined wrists and the warm trickle of his blood, running into his sweaty palms and trailing down his cold fingers, dripping – he can _hear_ it dripping— to the floor? Is it wrong that the man seems to be enjoying himself, staring him with wondrous fascination as his magic is slowly peeled away from him –Is _that_ wrong?

Where is it? Where is his _magic_? It was there before; he had felt it, buried somewhere deep and inaccessible – yet still _there._

 _Where_?

As the man probes deeper – under his skin and into his magic– Merlin closes his eyes and swallows the saliva down his raw throat. He sifts deep into the recesses of his mind where magic does not exist (because a world of non-magic is what he needs now, and he doesn’t understand why the nothing can help, but he wants it anyway) and he delves into memories, the lost ones he’s tried so hard to suppress and—

_“I’ll be the knight,” James says as he picks up his trusty stick from the ground. “Who wants to be the sorcerer?” The children eagerly talk amongst themselves until one suddenly yells, “Him! Let’s make him…”_

_Merlin sees the children coming toward him. James leads them, clutching a small, silver box in his arm and a thick stick in the other, and Merlin thinks nothing of the box’s gleaming silver surface…_

_The hard heels of a boy’s boots press upon his shins. Someone’s hands grasp his wrists, pinning his arms to the ground, and Merlin tries to fight back, but the other boys are much taller than him, more muscular. Resisting only increases the pressure upon his limbs, so Merlin finally stops trying moving and lays in the dirt, breathing heavily with sweat dripping down his brow…_

_Merlin strains to see James’ face from the corner of his eyes, but he can see the wooden stick pointed directly in his face. “I have defeated you now, evil sorcerer!” James cries in his most knightly-voice…_

_James throws the stick aside and opens the silver box, and inside is something, but Merlin can’t feel it._

_Nothing?_

_…Click…_

_“Now ye shall be put away into the dungeons of my glorious castle!” James’ voice is curiously distant…_

_Merlin opens his eyes. It’s too dark. He extends his arms and his clammy palms collide with something, a wooden door— he pushed against it – it doesn’t budge. His heartbeat quickens._

_“Where’s your father now?” he hears James’ loud voice taunting him, followed by the other boys’ peals of laughter. Disgust lines his voice._

_“You’re a_ bastard _!” another one yells._

_Merlin covers his ears as they yell from the outside, but he doesn’t block out their voices entirely because he needs to listen for them when they leave. He’ll use magic when they’re gone…_

_“Why’d your father leave?”_

_“Mother not good enough for him?”_

_He squeezes his eyes together, presses further into the corner of the cramped closet. It’s dusty, and the dirt gets in his nose and eyes. Merlin rubs away the grit from his watering eyes._ It’s the dust _, he tells himself,_ nothing more _._

_“Run off with someone else?”_

_“’Probably left because he saw what an ugly baby you were.”_

“Big Ears!” _another one adds, and the children erupt in another bout of laughter._

_His eyes sting as he tries to stop the flow of tears, but he eventually gives in and silently curses at himself for giving into this weakness - at least they cannot see him._

_As the burning tears drop from his eyes and onto the wooden floor, he reaches for his magic, but where? Where is his magic?_

_Unreachable, distant detached…_

_Merlin pounds his palms against the unforgiving door when he hears someone scream his name. The voice is dampened by the thick slice of wood between them, but Merlin can still hear the desperation and the anger in the person’s voice – it’s Will._

_“Where is he?”_

_…The rapid footsteps as the children quickly retreat. His heart pounds furiously from the adrenaline coursing though his veins…_

_Where is his magic? Where?_

_“Merlin? Merlin!”_

_Merlin pounds his hands harder upon the wooden door, and his palms become warm and sore; a wooden splinter embeds itself into his skin, but he ignores the sharp pain and screams, “I’m in here!”_

_…Will’s footsteps nearing him, closer, just a little closer…_

_“Give it to me!“ Will’s thunders; he is just outside the door. “James. You stay here.”_

_The boy grumbles but does not leave. The old wooden door groans as it is opened._

_“Merlin? It’s ok. I’m here,” Will says in a hushed whisper as he takes Merlin’s arm and pulls him out of the cabinet. Will helps him to his feet, but Merlin’s legs are shaking, and before he falls to the ground, Will holds him in his lap. That’s when Merlin sees the thick manacles curled around his wrists and the open silver box in James’ hand, but he cannot connect the two ideas, and Will tightens his hold on him as Merlin stares blankly between his wrists and the box._

_His magic… where?_

_A wave of darkness suddenly rolls over him, silence, darkness, silence…_

_“Shit, Merlin,” a voice says, and soon Merlin realizes that it’s Will’s, but he can’t see anything because it’s too dark, and he doesn’t understand why it’s so dark._

_Will lays Merlin’s head into his lap. “I’m sorry. I should have been here sooner,” he whispers into his ear, his voice trembling, not caring whether or not Merlin can hear him. Will directs his voice towards James, who is hovering nearby._

_“What are you waiting for? Get them_ off _.”_

_James gapes at Merlin and takes a step back. “Oh, god,” he gasps. “He’s—He’s really a—”_

_“Do it!” Will demands, and somewhere in the darkness, Merlin feels the pressure upon his wrists, and he feels the cold metal rubbing against his skin._

_James closes his eyes and wills the manacles to come off._

Click _._

_Sounds crash in his ears, feelings bombard his senses, and he’s in a never-ending freefall as his magic rushes back to the surface. Merlin wants to open his eyes, but the sensations overpower his will to move. He fights back against the wave of feelings and curls his fingers into the ground, forcing the excess influx of magic into the earth, and Merlin opens his eyes. Will helps him up, and Merlin slowly stands and presses his sweaty palms to his throbbing temples._

_James quickly scrambles to his feet. “You won’t tell anyone, right? You made a promise, Will.”_

_Will says nothing, and James turns around. In one bound, Will catches up to him and pins James’ arms behind him._

_“Do it.” Will looks into Merlin’s eyes. “He_ knows _.”_

_Merlin shakes his throbbing head. “No.”_

_“You have to, Merlin. He’ll tell everyone.” Will winces as James kicks him in his shins, but Will is just as tall, if not taller than James, and just as strong._

_A crease forms between Merlin’s brows, but he eventually walks up James and regretfully presses his palm to the boy’s forehead and closes his eyes—_

_…_ Merlin… a… sorcerer… He’s a—

His eyes, _oh_ _god_ , his _eyes_ , wild and inhuman _…_

_Merlin searches through his mind and quickly sifts through his thoughts. He carefully manages to pull away the image of himself and replaces it with another._

_No, James ran away with the other boys when he heard Will call Merlin’s name. He ran into the woods, and the leaves crunched beneath his feet. His shirt snagged on a nearby branch that he missed, but he sat behind a tree and waited for Will’s voice to fade into the distance. Water, cupped by the leaves, soaked into his pants, and he fell asleep beside the tree…_

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_Merlin. Merlin. Merlin._

_Come to me, come to me._

_The voice - this time – it is different. It is no longer the steady, easy thrumming he had first heard, but rather harsher, sharper and rougher, like a voice thrown about a hollow cave until all of the words have been distorted into a cacophony of sounds._

_It is wailing._

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_Darkness, darkness, everywhere…_

Before Merlin can open his eyes, he listens to the sounds around him, and all he can hear are shoes upon a stone ground. Oddly enough, he thinks he knows this person; the shoes do not pound on the floor like the knights’, and nor do they clap like Aredian’s; no, they scuff across the ground like the old man.

In the darkness, Merlin waits for the rest of his senses to return – he can now feel something uncomfortably tugging against his wrist.

He slightly opens his eyes and sees the old man hovering over him, but closes them as a rough cloth is wrapped around the inflamed skin. After a few minutes, the lightheadedness subsides and he musters all of the energy he has reserved and quickly sits up.

“Why?” he asks in a voice less harsh than he intended. He yanks his wrist away from the old man’s shaking fingers, caring less about the sharp pain that runs up his arm, and thrusts the iron manacle that is bound in a knotted piece of blood soaked cloth into the old man’s face.

“I’m sorry,” his old voice shakes.

The old man frowns and stands up, pushing aside the small stool, and rummages around the small chamber. The spark of energy Merlin felt a moment ago has gone just as quickly as it came, and he plops his head back upon the pillow and watches the old man.

Rows upon rows of books are buried into shelves and tubes of different colored liquids bubble on a table scattered with various papers, inkwells, and quills. From the chamber’s corners, lighted candles cast a mellow hue upon the room, and the melting wax methodically plops upon the stone floor, collecting upon the ground, _plop, plop_. Merlin takes in a deep breath and smells burning wax and dust from ancient books browning around the edges.

The old man opens several small doors in a tall, wooden cabinet, and his hand lands on a small green vial, which he takes it back with him as he sits on the stool beside Merlin.

“Here,” he says, handing him the concoction. “Drink this. It will help with the headache.”

Merlin takes the potion from his wrinkled hand and carefully watches the old man as he puts the cool rim of the small glass vialto his lips and tilts it, but just before the liquid brushes reaches his mouth, he places the potion on a round table next to the bed.

The old man sighs. “I’ve spoken with them,” he begins, talking more to himself than Merlin. “It’s the best I could do. I’m sorry.”

An unexpected, sharp knocking at the door exacerbates Merlin’s headache, and the old man yells, “Come in!”

As the heavy door creaks open, a knight flanked by two other knights walks into the room. They grimly follow behind him with their swords at their sides, which jostle against their chainmail cloaks. Each of their faces is held in a mask of stoicism—their lips, pursed—and as they near him and the old man, but when Merlin looks at the leader, he notices something about his form, something about his expression that sets him apart from them. Without his magic, however, it’s hard for Merlin to understand; yet he can see the fear—he can see it in all of their eyes.

“Good evening, Sir Leon. I wasn’t expecting any company tonight. Is something wrong?”

The knight turns towards the others and whispers something; he gestures towards Merlin and faces the old man again.

“Are you sure that this is him?”

The old man nods his head, and the knights narrow their eyes, but nothing in Sir Leon’s expression changes; only his eyes flit briefly towards the old man and Merlin.

“You are needed in the courtroom, Gaius, along with the sorcerer.”

Unlike the villagers in Ealdor, this knight does not spit out the name, and Merlin recognizes something similar in the knight’s tone to the old man’s – hard, but not calloused; commanding, yet not demanding – and Merlin is now ashamed of yelling at him.

With a slight nod of his head the two knights approach Merlin. His magic bristles, and a dull sting runs through his body, but it is less powerful than the shock that he received when he tried to destroy the iron cell bars. Merlin glares at them.

“We can’t—not like that,” one of the knights says, and he collects a cloth lying around on a table. Merlin doesn’t resist as he ties a coarse cloth over his eyes and as another collects his hands and tightly binds them behind him; another knight, whose hands are more careful (and Merlin immediately knows belongs to their leader) grasps Merlin’s arms and hoists him to his feet.

The leader firmly grasps his shoulder and leads him to the courtroom.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

It’s cold outside, and the wind sends shivers down Merlin’s spine as it whips through his clothes. He nervously fiddles with the thick rope that cuts into his wrists, and new blood begins to soak into his already blood-matted sleeves. In the distance, he can hear the crickets singing (it’s like home—he can pretend that he’s home because it’s easy in the darkness).

As they walk along the outside corridor, the torch wall-sconces seem to whisper to him, _Merlin, Merlin, Merlin,_ but he soon realizes that it’s the voice, andMerlin presses his eyelids closer together as the voice echoes inside his head.

“Stop it.” The words escape his lips before he is able to hold them back, and of course the knights wouldn’t be able to hear the voice–only his.

“I’m sorry,” the leader whispers into his ear, low enough so that the other knights cannot hear him, but loud enough so that Merlin can understand, and the knight urges him onward.

Merlin feels a change in the air, a shift in the atmosphere itself, as they enter the castle. Inside it is so quiet, but each slight sound is amplified as it is carelessly thrown against the cold, stone walls, echoing, echoing throughout the long corridor.

Their boots are thumping, and so is his heart.

A door is opened, and suddenly, it’s much warmer; the wooden floor creaks with each step. Through the thick folds of the fabric, Merlin squints and sees the faint, mellow glow of torch-sconces. He can hear the whispered murmuring of a crowd, but their voices are hushed and their tongues much more polite than the crude tongues of the crowds of Ealdor. Merlin smells the air which is lightly perfumed by some unknown spice, sweet and musky, and it makes his nose itch, but the binds prevent him from scratching his nose.

The tension of the hand on his shoulder increases and brings Merlin to a stop. Behind his head, someone’s fingers untie the cloth around his eyes. The piece of fabric falls upon the floor, and the crowd gasps.

Merlin looks into the eyes of the King, and the King stares back at him.

He first notices the lengthy scar on his face. Thick and knotted, the unnatural tissue catches his attention, and Merlin imagines the harsh bite of the sword that grazed his forehead and stopped just short above his eyelid, the mere force behind the blade that sent the king to his knees, eyes blinded both by blood and blow; Merlin imagines the rage that brought him back to his feet and sharpened the edge of his sword, rage that fought alongside him and stayed with him like a faithful servant, even after the battle was won and he took what was rightfully his.

But thisscar is what won him the hearts of his people and the throne.

“So it is true,” the King begins, and the crowd falls silent. “Long have you evaded us, and long have we sought after you. Emrys,” he hisses. “A mere peasant in a poor village. Who would have believed?”

 _Emrys?_ Merlin wonders as he tilts his head, “Who is E—?”

“Silence!” the king’s voice harshly reverberates off the stone walls. “You have no right to speak unless told otherwise. Do I make myself very clear?”

Merlin narrows his eyes and instead looks at the woman sitting beside him, dressed in a green. She has lovely emerald eyes and a beautiful silver bracelet...

A flash of white disappearing behind a column catches his attention. A hand curves along the contours of the circular mass, long and thin – a woman’s; an arm reaches around the arch, and a face peaks around the edge; it is of a woman with golden hair, and she is laughing at him, silently, as she twirls back into the shadows.

“Look at me,” the King commands.

Merlin keeps his eyes averted as he waits for the woman to return, but she doesn’t, and a knight sharply kicks him in the leg; Merlin reluctantly shifts his eyes back upon the King.

“It is _you_ who has given false hope to the Resistance, made my people turn against me. You are better off left for the dead. Traitor, _murderer_ ,” the King spits at him, and Merlin has a feeling that he is not just talking about him, but he says nothing.

“You know what you have done and what price is returned,” the King narrows his eyes, and Merlin is about to open his mouth to protest, but doesn’t because the woman in green signals him to stop with a quick flick of her wrist, and there is something kind in her eyes like in the old man’s and the knight’s, but Merlin doesn’t look at her for too long and returns his eyes to the King.

“You are no use to us dead, Emrys,” the King says in disgust. “Alive you are and alive you shall be for all to see,” the King stands up and lifts his head, his eyes surveying the crowd as he proclaims:

“You will be made Prince Arthur’s manservant, and there you shall remain as an example for all those of your kind.”

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_“Mor.”_

_“Mur.”_

_“No,” she chuckles, and he gives her a small smile. “Use your lips; it’s open like an ‘O.’ Here, watch me again,” she says, repeating the syllable._

_Mordred tries, but the letters clumsily fall off his lips. The vibration in his throat and curl of his tongue are still foreign to him, and it feels so very wrong to speak with his mouth, but it makes her happy, and that’s all that matters._

_It is… strange. Until now, he had never spoken to anyone without his mind because he believed that thoughts by mouth were warped and misshapen until their true meanings were lost. Yes, with magic, speaking mind to mind, one could not easily hide the truth… but where is his magic?_

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.


	7. Chapter 7

_Nimueh hastily returns to Camelot. She pushes past the guards into the chamber and finds Ygraine lying in her bed, pale, with a fading pulse and Gaius hovers over her, pressing a cold cloth to her sweat-ridden forehead._

_“Thank you, Gaius,” she tells him as she sits on the crimson-colored bed sheets beside Ygraine, and Gaius nods his head and gives her a wary look before departing the chamber._

_When the creaking of the wood against stone tells her that the door is closed and the sharp click of the latch tells her that the door is locked, Nimueh strokes Ygraine’s golden locks with her fingers and brushes away a few stray hairs from her face. She looks at her calm expression, like that of one who is sleeping— not slipping away— and she knows that this is the peaceful slumber that Ygraine has been fighting to sustain for weeks._

_Nimueh tenderly caresses Ygraine’s flushed cheek and commits her face to memory._

_This little blemish over here –Ygraine was nine when she tripped and cut her face with a stick; she came to her crying, and Nimueh used all the magic she knew at the age of eleven to heal the gushing wound. This freckle– Ygraine never liked it, but Nimueh always told her that it was her beautiful imperfection._

_The shadows beneath her eyes are new; her slightly more protruding cheekbones are new; the exaggerated blush of her cheeks is new. Nimueh knows that she is being selfish, but she has loved her as a friend since her childhood…_

_Nimueh’s hand drops from Ygraine’s cheek down to her neck. She gently peels away the damp covers and presses her palm upon her breast, over her weakly fluttering heart and words flow from her lips—words that she neither understands nor has ever studied. The magic feels different yet not foreign as is flows from her mouth into Ygraine, and the power comes not from the words, nor the earth, but herself, and as she leaks her life into Ygraine and presses her hand to her heart._

_And sometime in the night, Nimueh finds the darkness._

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_…Will carries James into the woods, and Merlin shows him the area he has placed into the boy’s mind. When they have positioned James and Merlin has lessened the effects of his sleeping spell, they return to the village and, of course, Old Man Simmons asks where his grandson has run off. Will lies (because Merlin’s a terrible liar) and says that they haven’t seen him all day, and they return to the cabinet where the iron cuffs lay on the ground, along with the silver box._

_“Don’t—” Will says too late before Merlin attempts to use his magic to burn the box and the manacles. Instead, Merlin is thrown off his feet, and his head sharply collides with the ground. Merlin rubs the sore spot on the back of his head, which he is sure will turn into an angry bump, and Will helps him up._

_The box… While the fire has merely cast dark streaks upon its surface, the metal itself hasn’t melted, and the cuffs remained unchanged._

_“Others have tried, Merlin. Once created, it can’t be destroyed…”_

“Boy!” the old man calls, opening the curtains to the window. When streaks of light sharply cut through the glass and shine in Merlin eyes, he turns over and protectively clutches the pillow to his face.

The pillow muffles the old man’s voice.

“I’ve let you sleep, but you cannot neglect your duties any longer.” Gaius pulls the pillow away from Merlin’s tight grasp, and it isn’t hard because the boy has no sense of coordination, with arms hands and legs flying everywhere. The sheets are halfway off the bed and the pillow’s captured in Gaius’s arms when Merlin finally opens his eyes.

“You should count yourself lucky, for what the king has done,” Gaius continues with something under his breath hat Merlin thinks is “even if he did it for the wrong reasons.”

By the time Merlin has stretched his arms and yawned, the old man has left the room. As he shrugs on his jacket, the weight on his wrists bothers him; its sharp edge bruises a purple ring around his wrists and cuts into the fresh wounds, but the poultice that Gaius has lathered onto the cuts has sped up the healing process, and a thick piece of gauze wrapped around each manacle prevents him from tampering with the wounds, which are already scabbing over and itching terribly. Merlin is thankful that his jacket’s sleeves cover his wrists.

Gaius reenters the room with a cloth in his hand.

“You’ll need something for that,” the old man says and still half-asleep, Merlin doesn’t understand what Gaius is talking about until he points to the knotted skin twisting around his neck. Embarrassed, Merlin quickly takes the cloth and mutters a “thank you,” but before he is able to unfold the fabric, Gaius takes his hand, tells him, “Use it wisely,” and leaves.

The pieceof fabric is softer than the one he had at home, but it’s the same deep crimson and made of the same finely woven cloth, thick enough to keep the chills away during the winter but not enough to be unbearably hot during the summer.

Upon unfolding the neckerchief, Merlin can smell a hint of lavender that clings to the fibers, and he finds a tiny capsule of a light-blue liquid buried deep within its folds. Written on a small label in delicate writing with a flourish to the “g” is _sleeping_ , and the writing is too small to be Gaius’s; it is too stylized to be written by a man. Merlin doesn’t know who has given him this potion, but he does know that Gaius understands its significance while he does not.

“Merlin!” Gaius calls, and he quickly rummages around the room and finally decides to place it under his pillow. He’s out the door before he is able to ask the old man about how he knew his name, and by the end of the day, it has completely slipped his mind.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

With an annoyed expression on his face, Arthur methodically drums his fingers upon the table, and tiny leftover crumbs tremble on his plate. He’s staring at the unopened door, and when Merlin finally walks in, he simply states, “You’re late.”

Merlin huffs and mumbles something under his breath that sounds too close to _what a clotpole_ as he walks past the prince to the bed and sets aside the downy white pillows. While neatening the messy covers, he hears the squeaking of the chair as the prince sits up and the dull knocking of shoes against the hard floor. The sound stops short behind him.

“You can’t address me like that.”

 _Of course. A clotpole like you always_ needs _to have the last word,_ Merlin thinks as he pulls up the red duvet and fluffs up the pillows– only a prince would have _this_ many pillows— and turns around to face Arthur, who raises his eyebrow.

“Thank god, I thought you were deaf as well as—”

Merlin turns back towards the bed, and he can hear the hitch in Arthur’s breath.

“Your _eyes_.”

Merlin ignores Arthur’s remark as he neatly places a pair of boots beside a tall, wooden cabinet.

“They’re still – I thought it’d be gone,” Arthur continues, clearly dumbfounded by something that Merlin doesn’t understand and doesn’t care to know. “It’s usually just a few hours.”

Merlin leaves the prince standing there as he tidies up the god-awful mess of a room, a mess that could have been easily avoided had the prat put things away where they belonged right after they were used.

He picks up an article of clothing from the ground and folds it up the fabric, made of fine blue-stained cotton, before placing it into a too-large and expensive oak-wood cabinet artfully engraved with ornamental designs. Inwardly, Merlin sighs. He had heard of such luxury from Will’s tales but never had he imagined it to be this impressive, and the obvious show of power and wealth made Merlin feel insignificant and slightly embarrassed. It was so different from Ealdor, where one’s possessions were simple and practical, well maintained and cherished – one would be laughed at for having such elaborate and unpractical objects.

And Camelot has candelabras. _Candelabras._ Will had told him about their long black spines and the metal braces cupping each individual candle in an artistic fashion, but young Merlin hadn’t believed him because he had seen no such thing before. _Candelabras_. Ealdor merely has short sticks of candles which that one would have to hold until the pain of hot melting wax oozing over one’s fingers became too unbearable.

As Merlin places clothing into the multiple drawers, an object particularly catches his eye – it’s a gilded mirror engraved with dragons, and a faint golden light glows around its rim. Mesmerized, Merlin picks up the mirror and a lady – the same lady with the golden hair he had seen twirling around the column – stares back at him. She’s smiling, grinning at him, and Merlin whirls around to confront her, but he sees no one but Arthur, who is now seated at his desk with a quill poised in his hand and inkwell and a thick pile of parchment beside him.

Merlin peers back into its depths and finds that the woman is gone; he sees only himself –and _oh,_ hiseyes _–_ a bright molten gold. _Magic_ , yet he is not using any magic…

“Don’t touch that,” Arthur’s sudden interjection rattles Merlin, who quickly places the mirror back into the closet and shuts the doors.

“If I ever catch you with that again,” he pauses. “...I better not.”

Arthur holds a finger to Merlin who struggles to suppress a smirk because Arthur may be good at fighting, or whatever princes do, but his threats are _pathetic_.

A crease forms between Arthur’s brows, and he parts his lips to say something but decides otherwise and sits back at his writing table.

Merlin removes the dirty plate from the table and heads out of the prince’s chambers to… wherever the kitchen is…

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

None of the servants passing Merlin through the long corridors with the ribbed stone ceilings and trembling torch-sconces bother to point him into the right direction. With one glance, they throw him an angry look or yell at him about how he should be dead like all the others; they tell him that _she_ didn’t deserve to go; _she_ was innocent; _he_ is not. Others look askance as they quickly pass him by.

None of will tell him where the kitchen is located – that is until he quite literally bumps into a shy girl who’s cradling a bouquet of freshly cut purple blossoms. The flowers scatter about the floor, and Merlin instinctively reaches for his magic, but a harsh sting runs through his body and causes him to lose his footing. Merlin disguises his fall as clumsiness, and both proceed to collect the scattered blooms.

“Are you alright?” she asks, adding another purple flower to the bundle in her hand. “I mean, of course you wouldn’t be _alright_ , after all I know how it must feel – no. No, I wouldn’t because I don’t have…” she nervously trails off, and Merlin hands her another flower.

“Thank you,” she says and blushes. She smiles and lifts her eyes towards him, and her eyes widen.

Merlin feigns a cough and rubs his eyes, “Err, Arthur told me about that this morning.”

“No, no! I’m sorry for staring. It’s quite rude of me,” she tells him as she collects the last blossom and places the bouquet of flowers back into arms.

She extends her hand towards Merlin, who shakes it.

“I’m Gwen,” she says.

“I’m Merlin.” He points towards her bouquet of violets. “An admirer?” he guesses.

Gwen laughs, and a warm pink blush brightens her light-brown cheeks. “Oh no - these are for Morgana. She hasn’t been feeling well lately, so I thought that these might cheer her up.”

“The one with the green eyes?”

Gwen nods, and her brown curls bounce on her shoulders.

“That’s very kind of you,” Merlin says as he stands up and helps Gwen to her feet.

They stand there awkwardly for a moment until he asks, “I was looking for the kitchen?”, and Gwen points down a long corridor.

“All the way down there to the left, down the stairs – be careful, they’re steep – and when you get there, watch out for ol’ Harriet, the cook. She absolutely doesn’t like _anyone_ around her food…”

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Just as Merlin finds the kitchens, another servant takes the plate from him and informs him that Prince Arthur needs his sword and shield from the armoury. At least this time a servant tells him exactly where exactly it’s located, but she does still doesn’t look him in the eye, and she calls him _Emrys_.

 _Emrys, who is Emrys?_ Merlin wonders.

Uther and everyone else in the courtroom whispered the name, hissed it under their breaths with more than a slight hint of anger. Uther had spoken about this _Emrys_ as a person who shouldn’t exist, but his name is _Merlin_ and it has _always_ been Merlin – he is quite sure – and nothing more, but no one will listen.

And the wrath in Uther’s eyes as he harshly silenced him and called him _Murderer, Traitor, Liar._

Merlin doesn’t understand his connection with this _Emrys_ , and he finds it ironic how he was ignored in Ealdor because of his insignificance, and now how he is ignored in Camelot because of his significance – a significance that everyone but _he_ understands. How could he, a mere peasant who desperately hid his magic in a small village that no one bothered to protect when the bandits attacked, have widened the rift between the magical and nonmagical people?

Merlin feels like a non-person, like a _thing_.

And without his magic, what reason is there to live?

 _Emrys,_ what is _Emrys?_

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

They’re waiting for him when Merlin enters the armoury. One knight places his stubborn boot upon Arthur’s sword while another places his boot upon Arthur’s helmet, and they’re all laughing at him when he opens the door and begins searching through the numerous swords and helmets hanging on the opposite wall.

“Prince is picky ‘bout his equipment,” one barks as he sharply stomps on the sword. For a moment, Merlin’s sure that the knight’s put a good dent in the metal, but he reasons that the Prince’s sword must be made of a tougher metal, a special tempered steal, to resist the harsh exchange of blows in battle.

Merlin ignores him and instead shuffles through the numerous swords and spears, which lean against wooden braces, for a sword and a helmet that look roughly the same size and shape as the ones the knight hold captive, but he soon decides that Arthur wouldn’t want any other equipment but his own.

“Didn’t yer hear me, boy?” the knight raises his tone.

Merlin turns around and glares at him. “Prince Arthur needs it. _Now_.”

One of the other knights behind him laughs and says, “Boy, this ‘un’s got some attitude,” but the knight standing upon Arthur’s sword narrows his eyes and deepens his voice. “You gotta ask nicer than _that_.”

“No.”

As the knight takes a swing at Merlin, his magic instinctively lashes out at the knight, but the manacles deflect his magic upon himself, and Merlin is sent flying to the ground. He’s pushed into the darkness as the force of his magic, coupled with the knight’s blow, both sink into him, and it _stings_ , both mentally and physically.

He can’t breathe, he can’t move. All he can feel is the warm pool of blood rushing beneath the surface of the skin of his cheek, prickling and tingling; all he can hear are the knights as he waits for his body to respond.

When he finally comes around, the knights leave the room, laughing.

“What’s wrong? Magic all gone?” one taunts before slamming the wooden door closed.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Merlin collects the gear, and when he arrives at the training ground with Arthur’s equipment, one of the King’s messengers appears and tells them that Prince Arthur will not be leading this session because he is attending an important meeting.

With the messenger out of sight, one suggests that use Merlin for practice, but Merlin, who’s on the ground recovering from a purposely placed boot in his path, tries to ignore their silly banter as he wipes away the a messy spot of dirt from his only leather jacket.

Suddenly, someone throws a heavy shield on the ground beside him. Merlin looks up at a knight, who is now swinging a heavy mace behind his head. _Whack!_ the mace collides with the ground and sends earth flying through the air. He rolls over to avoid the object— _Wham!_ the barbs barely miss his arm. Merlin covers himself with the shield, which absorbs the shock of the mace.

The knights soon tire of this game and begin chucking various things at him like knives and stones. Someone even throws a boot, which he promptly deflects with the shield, and it plops to the ground. It isn’t too long after that another knight decides that the Merlin’s cheating by using the shield, and they quite easily wrestle the shield from Merlin’s tight grasp.

Without the shield, Merlin can feel the dull pulse of his magic trying to resurface.

 _Protect, protect, protect,_ he feels like his magic is chanting, and he tries to suppress the feeling, but, stubborn as he ever was, his magic persists in trying to help him.

When a knight chucks a large rock at him, instead of dodging the flying object, he stands there dumbly, body rigid as his magic reaches out to deflect the attack. Of course, the rock hits him square in the arm, and Merlin knows that it will leave a nasty raised bruise. Additionally, a harsh sting runs through his body as the manacles deflect the attack onto himself; Merlin falls to the ground, stunned.

After the knights decide that he’s able to move again, they continue to chuck things at him for the sake of entertainment. For the rest of the afternoon, they playwith him, knowing full well that he will keep trying to use his magic, and the longer this game goes on, the longer the stuns last, the longer he has to wait until he can actually _breathe_.

When they’re all crowded around him on the ground as another shock runs through his body, Arthur finally arrives.

“What do you think you are doing?” he asks the knights, who quickly reassemble themselves into a neat line, leaving breathless Merlin upon the ground.

None of the knights reply, and Arthur stands firmly in front of a knight whom he addresses as Sir Bruin.

“What were you doing?”

“Playing with the sorcerer, Sire,” the knight’s voice is subdued, nothing like the angry bark it was earlier, but Arthur catches the irritated tone in his voice and with an angry gesture, dismisses all of them, telling them that tomorrow will be a longer day. When Sir Bruin complains and argues that there is no reason for such an unreasonable punishment, Arthur reels around and sharply strikes him in the mouth. The knight looks at him, aghast, as he clutches his bloodied lips. Arthur’s voice takes a steely tone.

“You do as I say, when I say, with no hesitation. Do I make myself clear?” He surveys the knights, who reply with a chorus of “Yes, Sire”s and quickly retreat.

When they are gone and Merlin’s able to steady his breath, Arthur lends him a hand. Unlike the commanding tone his voice and the stern expression on his face, his hand is sweaty, and Arthur quickly returns it to his side after Merlin is upon his feet. Merlin’s about to thank him, but Arthur raises his hand before he can speak and walks away, leaving Merlin and the shield in the training ground, but Merlin smiles because somewhere behind that fake façade, he believes that Arthur actually cares.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Merlin doesn’t tell Gaius about the sources of the bruises because he’s too embarrassed to admit that he kept trying to use his magic, and Gaius is kind enough not to ask and gives him soothing poultices like the one that he has been lathering onto his sore wrists.

As Merlin spreads the ointment over tender area on his shoulder, he can’t help but feel ashamed of his position, of the knights’ blatant show of disrespect – he knows that he only but a _servant_ , but he is still a person, a human capable of human emotions, and he doubts that anyone would ever understand.

When Gaius leaves the chamber, he is tempted, _oh_ , he is so tempted to snatch a random potion from one of the cabinets and douse it all in one gulp. Merlin doesn’t think that he would mind the burning that might slide down his throat, or the spasms that may pull at his stomach, or the pressure that may pull at his lungs; to feel _anything_ – even if it meant drinking until his mind escaped from _this_ reality, _this_ world that is so colorless and bland…

But Merlin doesn’t, and he is too ashamed to admit that it is because he is too afraid of death…

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Without an explanation, Arthur no longer requests that he fetch his sparring equipment or attend practices, and even though Merlin is thankful, it gives him too much time on his hands to think – to worry – as he sits alone in Arthur’s chambers…

Seated on a small, wooden bench and with cloth in hand, Merlin shines Arthur’s boot (he absentmindedly notices that it has few than his own), and his mind wanders.

 _Emrys_ , Mordred had called him and had told him that it would be both his savior and his doom. Mordred was right –he had been spared, even though Uther said that he should be dead – but how did this boy who hadn’t seen the light of day for years and who hadn’t known him from anywhere _know_?

Merlin rubs the boot just a bit harder.

But he has no access to the dungeons where Mordred is locked away; the only keys, besides the ones owned by Aredian, are _always_ beside Arthur.

He puts down both boot and cloth (which are soon forgotten) and heads into Gaius’s chambers, searching through the numerous little cabinets and drawers. Potions upon potions line the shelves. Some are labeled, while others are not, but those that are marked are not labeled with what he wants. After accidentally knocking a blue liquid onto the floor, which promptly melts a black hole into the stone ground, Merlin remembers the small capsule that was given to him within the folds of his neckerchief.

Merlin grabs the potion in the tiny glass from beneath his pillow and heads off to the kitchen.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Pouring the wine into the goblet, he watches Arthur sit into the chair. For a few moments he doesn’t even pick up a fork, so Merlin asks, “Is something wrong?”

“Servants always eat the first bite,” he explains.

“But that would only work if the poison is fast acting.”

Arthur raises his eyebrow and retrieves a spare fork from his pocket. Merlin carefully maneuvers around the potion, which he has carefully dripped onto the lettuce and takes a bite, and _oh_ , this venison – it is tantalizing, infused with herbs and spices that he doesn’t recognize, but it melts in his mouth and puts the bland venison in Ealdor to shame.Merlin nods his head.

Arthur watches him and starts eating – it isn’t long before the potion kicks in, and Arthur collapses (Merlin hadn’t thought about getting a pillow, and he hopes that Arthur won’t be too bothered by the _small_ purple bruise that will be on his cheek tomorrow).

Quickly, Merlin hauls (actually, drags) Arthur across the floor and flops him into his bed. He takes the key from his pocket before tucking him neatly under the covers, and after fluffing up the pillows, he removes the half-eaten plate from the table and heads towards the kitchen. Just before he reaches the kitchen’s door, however, he turns left to where the dungeons lie and hides the plate behind a corner.

His first instinct is to use magic, but he catches himself and instead uses a stolen piece of flint and torch from the armoury. Stifling the flame with a cloth, he lays the torch aside and uses the key to open the door, makes it inside the dungeons, and is about to walk down the hallway to where Mordred’s cell is located when someone calls his name, or rather, calls him by the name everyone but Arthur, who has never addressed him directly, seems to insist it is.

“Emrys,” she says, her voice calm and dark, her tongue seems to caress the ‘s’ in the name.

Merlin quickly turns around and sees a woman behind a column with long, dark tresses running down her back and rolling over her shoulders, covering her forest-green cloak. She’s comfortably leaning against the column, and as she stares into his eyes, Merlin’s heartbeat quickens; he quickly looks for a way out, but something about her eyes holds him there, invites him. Merlin’s magic bristles; it stings his mind, and he squeezes his eyes shut and presses his hands to his temples, but he doesn’t lose his footing.

When he reopens his eyes, he sees that a crease has formed between her brows, and Merlin has a strange feeling that she understands.

“I am not here to rat you out,” she tells him, although somehow he already knew, and her emerald eyes bore into his. “Be careful. Aredian was not here today, but tomorrow he will be. We can’t have you to get caught.”

Merlin gives her a slight nod and doesn’t ask about what she means by ‘we’ as he quickly passes her by. Behind his back, he can hear her voice mingled with the whisper of fire, “The potion’s strong; it shall last well into the morning. You better have a good excuse ready for Arthur.”

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

“You have returned,” Mordred comments, not meeting Merlin’s gaze.

“I need some answers,” Merlin says, and he almost asks Mordred about the significance behind the name ‘Emrys’ – no. If Mordred has been in the dungeons for such a long time, wouldn’t he know his way around, perhaps from gossiping guards or other prisoners?

The question slips right off his tongue before he is able to comprehend what he is saying.

“Where is the dragonlord, Balinor?”

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_The infrequent guards rotating on hourly shifts occasionally gossip about the week’s current events. It’s rare that they stand close enough to his cell that he can hear them, let alone understand them, but today, he’s able to make out a more than just a few words._

_Will and his father have mysteriously disappeared, and blacksmith with a daughter named Gwen are temporarily replacing them._

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.


	8. Chapter 8

_Arthur is different, Ygraine notices._

_Since she was ill, something about him has changed... He has turned into a strong, honorable young man who wants to accomplish so many things in life – just like his father – and Ygraine chuckles when Arthur’s playful punch to Uther’s shoulder is returned with a mad chase around the empty courtroom. They are all laughing and smiling._

_At ease, she watches them. Yes, Arthur’s face has changed, too; the shadows beneath his cheekbones have deepened, he’s grown much, much taller and more muscular and handsome – but his eyes are the same, his golden hair is the same; his laugh, slightly deeper, but the same – and Ygraine tells him that she loves him._

_Yet as she watches them playing together, she feels that a distance has grown between Arthur and herself –and Arthur is more like his father. Her year-long sickness has taken a toll on both of their hearts, and Ygraine senses a change in him that steadily pulls at her heart, but she cannot understand the change, and as she threads a comb through his golden-wheat hair, she whispers and reassures him, “You are mine.”_

_In the wings, Nimueh watches her and Arthur and the King stitch together the lost-years’ hole-ridden fabric. A clean, new canvas has been created and stretched across the wide expanse of time. A new picture is now being painted in its place._

_But her strength is failing, and as the months pass by, magic seems to wash away from her fingertips. She thinks that it will be a strange feeling, a world without magic, but she refuses to relinquish her firm hold on the spell that takes from her because she fears for the future – for the future the crystals and the dragon have both prophesied._

_And she gives the mirrors to Ygraine and Hunith for safekeeping, if anything were ever to happen._

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Arthur likes Father’s bright red cloak because it’s long and soft, and when father’s sitting alone in the tall wooden chair around the table reading through the thick, crinkly stack of important papers by the pulsing orange and yellow torch-light, Arthur likes to snuggle into his lap and tuck his chin into the fabric and into his father’s warm embrace. It smells of Father.

Sometimes he falls asleep, and in the morning finds himself in his room with the warm layers of the velvety red cloak draped over his body. He wants to have his own – just like father’s – but Father tells him that he’s too young, so Arthur dreams about growing up and being like daddy so that he can have his own.

But Father’s usually very busy, so Arthur’s pulled out of the throne room and sent to his chambers where he is left to his own devices. Occasionally Nimueh is there, but often she is not, so he enjoys wandering the castle and bothering Gaius, who always seems to be messing with the brilliantly colored tubes in his chamber and sometimes Balinor, who allows him to ride on the Dragon. Arthur has learned not to mess with Aredian.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

He searches through the numerous shelves of books and brushes his fingers across their soft leather spines. Standing on his toes, one catches his eye, but because it’s too high for him to reach, he has to ask Geoffrey, who retrieves the volume with the sepia-colored spine embossed with an elaborate knotted crisscross pattern.

It’s heavy and large and makes him sneeze, but he likes the feeling of the embossed cover beneath his fingertips. When he turns over the tome, he sees a gilded mirror engraved with dragons set into its back, unclouded and void of any scratches or fingerprints or wear, and he cannot see his own reflection.

Curious, Arthur searches the cover for any inscriptions, finds none, and tries to open the book, but some unseen force keeps it shut. Looking back at the shelf, he finds two mirrors exactly like the one set into the tome.

He brings both the book and the mirrors to Mother, who shows it to Nimueh.

“The Book of the Dead,” she says running her hands over the unmarked mirror. Her eyes briefly shine a brilliant gold, but soon fade back to blue, and she nervously laughs. “It was worth a try,” she mutters to herself before setting the book aside.

“Only the dead can open and write in this book, and only the dead can see themselves in this mirror. And we? We can see the reflection of those closest to us who have died.”

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_Mother keeps the mirrors; he keeps the tome._

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

“Get up! Fight!”

Father’s booming voice can easily be heard over the clamorous sounds of steel colliding against steel – a battle raging elsewhere – but in this brief second of darkness, Arthur’s clouded mind can only hear his father’s voice. It has taken him too long to realize that he’s hit the ground, and his delayed response costs him dearly. As his fingers blindly fumble across the dew-strewn grass for the blade barely inches from his hand, his opponent promptly pins him to the ground with a boot to his chest and a sword at his throat.

The young knight, whose cheeks are flushed red and lips upturned in what Arthur thinks is a grimace, retracts the blade and throws it upon the moist ground. He extends his black leather-gloved hand towards Arthur, who quickly stands up and proceeds to brush the dirt from his shirt. From the corner of his eyes, he glances towards the empty place his father had stood just a few moments ago, and both relief – and shame – washes over him as he wipes the grime from the corners of his mouth and collects his fallen sword and shield.

Arthur sighs. The first day of training is harder than he had imagined. He wasn’t exactly sure how the sessions would be; he had only imagined himself being a knight and nothing more. As the king’s son, he had always been respected, but as a knight, he learned that respect was to be earned not just expected. And what he has just done is no way of earning respect.

After the long day’s practice finishes and the knights are leaving the ground, Arthur pulls the knight aside – the one with dark brown hair and kind eyes. Like the rest, he’s older than him, but he’s by far the shortest, lease muscular, and most cunning of the lot.

“I’m Arthur,” he says without thinking, and the other boy laughs.

“I’m Lancelot. It’s nice to meet you.”

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Background matters not to becoming a knight—only skill- yet most are sons of noblemen, rich serfs, or those in power, and it is something that they can boast about by the light of a tavern with cups of ale in their hands, faces flushed and grins wide. There aren’t many battles to be fought, only the occasional rogue who stole wheat from the storage or maybe a peasant who forgot to pay his dues, and for the most part, their job is easy so they drink their ale late into the night with comfortable sacks of coins by their sides.

And it is because of his humble roots that they pick on him—Lancelot. Arthur has to bite his tongue to suppress a surly retort each time he hears them talking behind his back, but Lancelot takes their comments with nothing more than a quick glance. In battle, he silently defeats them.

At first, Arthur doesn’t understand the ease at which Lancelot strikes down the knights, but after watching Lancelot and silently following him, he too masters the art. Arthur knows that in the future he will be able to brag about being trained to kill since birth since he is the youngest knight, yet only he, himself, will know that it never came easily to him, not like it did for Lancelot.

For a short while he feels ashamed of his own abilities (or lack thereof), for he had heard stories about Father and his great battlefield achievements at a young age. Arthur might not have had the gift of inherent skillfulness with a sword, but if there were ever something that he inherited from Father, it was his mentality.

Mind over matter. Arthur challenges himself to be more like Lancelot and waits for _that_ day. One of these days, he’ll be one of Camelot’s finest knights just like Lancelot – just like Father.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

With his rounded steel helmet cupping his face and both sword and shield in hand, he merely shrugs away the slight discomfort. Through the hollow chambers of the cold metal, which is lined with sweat that slowly drips behind his neck, he can still hear the shouts of the crowd, hollow and distorted. Arthur refocuses his attention back upon his opponent.

Eye contact never wavering, they circle each other for several long seconds. Sir Caradoc suddenly lunges at him; he merely steps aside, dancing around the edges of his attack and letting the pure force behind his wide gesture send him flying to the ground. He leaps aside as the mace that was meant for him cruelly claws the earth, inches from his foot.

His opponent quickly repositions himself and slowly approaches him, this time with catlike agility as he swings the ball of metal above his head.

_Whoosh!_

Again Arthur avoids his attack.

 _No, not just yet_ , Arthur tells himself. _Wear him out_.

Quickly glancing towards his father in the stands, he sees him narrow his eyes, telling him that it’s time.

He catches Sir Caradoc off timing and quickly closes in the distance, landing a solid blow to his chest that sends the knight to the ground. Arthur thrusts aside his helmet and shield as he helps up the knight and looks towards the stands for Father, but he’s gone, and he schools his expression into one of stoicism as he exits the arena.

The loud cheering of the crowd fades in the distance.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Arthur later learns that Mother had suddenly collapsed whilst making her way down one of the stairwells. Luckily Nimueh was there to break the fall with magic just before her head hit the step.

After stripping off his heavy armor, peeling away the sweaty clothes, and tending to his minor bruises and cuts, he puts on a new, crisp pair of clothes and makes his way to the eastern wing to where his Mother’s chamber resides; his sore legs ache with each step, but he ignore the dull pain.

He tries the door to Mother’s chamber – it’s locked. Arthur pulls at the cold, metal handle again, but it doesn’t budge any more than it did on his first attempt, so he sits in one of the wooden chairs outside her chamber. His legs are not yet long enough to touch the floor, so he dangles them over the too-long seat and occasionally swings them to occupy himself while he listens to the passing servants walking at a brisk pace up and down the corridors and whispering to each other. He pieces together small bits of their disjointed conversations.

“Just a few bruises.”

“Horrid fever.”

“I kept telling her that she needed to eat more.”

“Not taking care of herself properly.”

When all of the servants have cleared away from the eastern wing, Arthur knocks on the chamber door. Nothing. He knocks again. No response. Arthur cups his hands and presses his ear to the door to listen to whoever may be inside.

“—her fall.” Ah, he knows this voice; it is Nimueh.

From within, he hears the rustling of bed sheets.

“Servants report that she has had a fever for a few days. Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

Silence, and Arthur think it’s because she’s trying to choose her words carefully.

“Gaius proscribed a potion to her which she took every day. It should have worked—”

“—but it didn’t.” Faither raises his voice.

“There is— _Shhh._ ”

Arthur quickly sits himself back into the seat and waits a few minutes before listening again. Nothing but silence.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_Mother? Where is Mother?_

He hasn’t seen her in several weeks, and Father won’t let him near her. Father won’t let him ask how she’s doing, and he’s only seen quick glimpses of Nimueh, and no one will tell him anything.

The monotonous days pass at a tremendously, tauntingly slow pace, and even the thrill of sparring practice seems to have dulled. Arthur only briefly worries because he keeps himself preoccupied with devising easier ways of defeating each knight.

_Lancelot likes to draw one out, to wait for him first; Sir Pelinor’s movements are much too wide; catch Sir Caradoc off timing. Keep arms close to body, always keep eye contact with the opponent, keep stance low, but not too crouched; watch for a pattern…_

One of those days, however, Lancelot brings a friend with bright brown eyes and long locks of hair that run down his neck and curve over the right side of his face, and he has a cheeky grin that Arthur thinks has been permanently plastered upon his face.

Because the newcomer is constantly interrupting practice, Arthur is close to throwing him out (even though he secretly enjoys the distractions, but knights aren’t supposed to be distracted) when Lancelot pulls him aside and privately tells him that sparring may be good for Gwaine.

Arthur tilts his head.

“It might distracthim.”

A moment passes before Arthur understands, but he nods his head and places a hand on Lancelot’s shoulder before returning to the knights who are grouped around a fallen and laughing Gwaine.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

…

…

…

_Each morning, Arthur peeks into the mirror..._

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Arthur doesn’t sulk; he doesn’t talk either. He just sits quietly at the table and brushes the tips of his boots upon the floor and eats his food in silence. Sometimes the occasional messenger interrupts the meal, and Father screams at the poor man, who only came to deliver a simple message. The sudden outbursts cause Arthur to close his eyes, and placing his hands over his ears doesn’t fully block out the yelling.

Sometimes Father pounds his white-knuckle fists onto the table to emphasize an already understood point. Jolted, Arthur closes his eyes, but he has now trained himself not to flinch because that’s a sign of weakness –as is crying – and Arthur learns to say nothing.

Oh, but the one time he dares to ask about Mother, Father lashed out at him, screaming words too large for him to understand into his red face. Ashamed, Arthur turned his eyes towards his half-eaten plate and holds in traitor’s tears and sits in silence. He avoided Father as much as possible the next few days.

The silence is much better than the screaming, he thinks, but he soon finds himself worrying about when the next outburst will occur; it’s better than the yelling – sometimes – but the anticipation eats at him in this silence. Father always yells over something trivial, and god forbid that something go terribly wrong (but what about Mother?)

And breakfast has become another one of those repetitive events like sleeping and waking up each morning (and looking into the mirror) and today, had he not just happened to glance over towards Father, he wouldn’t have seen her. He was only able to catch a quick glimpse of her curly, long black locks before returning his eyes to the bland chicken, and Arthur had to chew on the sides of his cheek to suppress the questions that threaten to roll off his tongue.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Arthur cunningly – subtly – flirts with her, but she doesn’t seem to notice – no, not yet. He tries to impress her in any way he can, and cautiously inserts himself into her life.

Along one of his ventures, he learns that she likes ravens, white ones with pale pink eyes and small leather straps wrapped around their sturdy, thin legs so that she can identify them. She merely calls them “pets,” but Arthur knew that she was lying, even though her breath never faltered and her eyes never wavered as she delivered the false line; he only knew because he had seen Lancelot and Gaius with the same birds. A while ago, Gaius had sent him one with a small note pressed close to its leg but they were always black, never white. Arthur saw no reason for her to lie, but he didn’t press any further as stroked the bird’s feathers and sent it flying through the air.

Arthur thinks he’s learned everything he can about her, but her lineage he never bothered to explore… so when it comes to impressing her on the battlefield, why, Arthur is _most_ surprised.

She stares at him for a moment as she tosses the blade aside and takes off her helmet. Leaning over to help him to his feet, her long black locks tumble down her shoulders and she grins, not wide like Gwaine’s, not slyly nor gallantly – _defiantly_ – and she raises her arms in victory.

Arthur tries to shrug off the slight annoyance that pulls at him. No, he hasn’t just been beaten by a _girl_ because he had been distracted; the game hadn’t technically begun before she suddenly rushed at him. No, she hadn’t just defeated him in just a few easy minutes, _too_ easy. He was just giving her time to warm up, just taking it easy on her. _Right_?

But the next time she beats him, it is in front of his father, and no plausible excuse can save him this time. The third time’s downright humiliating, and Arthur decides not to spar with her in front of Father anymore.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

It is humiliating, really, when he learns that she’s his half-sister.

But he doesn’t know that when he pecks her on the cheek, and Morgana, who never runs away, who never gives up a fight, escapes from his arms and quickly exits the throne room, leaving him alone and quite embarrassed.

No one ever tells him anything, and he doesn’t see Morgana for a while, like he hasn’t seen Nimueh or Mother.

It’s Balinor who confronts him one day and takes him aside into one of the castle’s corners and tells Arthur about Mother and Morgana, but before Balinor is able to finish, Arthur dashes off towards Mother’s chamber, and he furiously pounds his small fists upon her door, screaming, not caring who hears him or even if he awakens her; to hear her voice, _to hear anything_ , he doesn’t care.

In the morn, Arthur cannot recall much of what happened the night before. All he can remember is someone prying his fingers from the cold iron handle and crying – himself, crying.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

When his back is screaming at him and his calves are burning, and his body, sweaty and sticky… when his joints are stiff and sore, and entire frame shaking, Father tells him to keep going, and Arthur grips his sword tighter. _Stop, please stop._

He jumps back – not far enough. The sharp metal grazes his arm, and the angry sting is soon replaced by the familiar tingle of a stubborn wound. As he circles his opponent, sweat trickles down his back beneath his thick armor.

 _Stop, please stop._ Arthur’s vision wavers, and he squints through the sweat running into his eyes, but Father tells him to keep going. Another hard blow sends him to the ground; Arthur does not– cannot – stand up.

And Uther storms out of the grounds.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Has it already been a year?

Yes. He can tell by the color of the leaves, the filled storage rooms, the brief appearance of the sun before it dips below the horizon; yes, and each day he has looked into the mirror.

Relief washes over him whenever he doesn’t see her in its unscathed depths, but as each day wears on, he fears that he will forget the little things about Mother – her fingers gently threading through his hair, her face lighting up as she smiles, her laughter washing away any remnants of uncomfortable feelings –no matter how desperately he tries to cling to them.

Time has faded these memories, and he’s bothered by the distance between Mother and himself, so he finds a little a golden-threaded hair wrap of hers, still strong with her scent from the laundry bin and tucks it under his pillow.

One time, when he tries the door that is always locked, the latch clicks, and Arthur bursts into the room.

In just a few bounds, he’s by her side, but he senses something is wrong and, by the firelight, searches her face for any sign of awareness, of movement. She hasn’t changed as much as he had imagined, although her skin is pale and cheeks are hollow. She’s sleeping, so he tries to arouse her by shaking her shoulder; he calls her name, louder, _louder_ , but to no avail.

And Arthur sits on the floor beside the bed and searches under the covers for her hand, soft and thin, and places it next to his cheek.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

He must have fallen asleep because it’s dark outside by the time he opens his eyes to the screaming of his name.

Arthur hasn’t a moment to think before someone’s fingers wrap around his upper arms and harshly rip him away from Mother. In the muddled black, he uses his hands to feel his surroundings; the wooden floor is surprisingly cold. The person kicks him in the shin when he attempts to stand, and when Arthur doubles over in pain, he grabs his legs and drags him across the creaking wooden slats. In the morning, Arthur will be glad that he had a long sleeved shirt to hide the swollen red skin in the shape of a hand.

In vain, his fingers blindly wrap themselves around the solid leg of a nearby table, but the person drops his body to the floor and wrestles his weak grasp from the piece of furniture before proceeding to drag him out of the room. Arthur screams for Mother, but she remains silent to the world.

Outside the chamber, where there are bright wall sconces, Arthur turns to look into the eyes of his pursuer, and just before he is lifted into the air and dropped to the floor, he recognizes the silhouetted figure as Father—

—the breath, forcefully knocked out of his lungs… he can’t breathe… by the time he’s able to comprehend, he’s shoved him into a dark closet, and the door is locked.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Arthur is slightly embarrassed that Gwen’s found him, but he’s thankful that she doesn’t ask him how he locked himself inside the closet. Instead, she immediately goes on rambling about anything and everything – how Balinor had fended off a mischievous pack of wyverns, how the cook had forgotten to put the eggs in the cake, how Gwen and her father had replaced Will and his father, whom had both been missing for a few weeks…

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Arthur likes Gwen.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

It’s a dream – he is quite certain – because only in his dreams do her footsteps slowly approach his bed, hollow, echoing, and pausing for a few minutes; only in his dreams does her hand slightly brush against his shoulder, lightly, softly so that he will not awaken, and Arthur squeezing his eyes together more tightly.

He doesn’t like these taunting dreams, so he shrugs his shoulder away from the imaginary touch and tucks the covers closer to his chin.

“Arthur,” a voice says in merely a whisper, and it’s _her_. It’s her voice, yet slightly thinner.

 _Just a dream_ , Arthur tells himself, and he daren’t turn over, like he always does after these dreams, only to find a barren room.

“Arthur,” she repeats as she plants a kiss upon his temple and hugs him close to her breast, and he opens his eyes to her warm embrace and presses his nose into her locks, thinner into her thinned locks, but by the light of the candle, he can see their golden color. _“_ ¬ _Just like mine,”_ she always told him.

Ygraine exhales a deep breath and rubs his back.

 _Mother.._. Arthur clutches her, and by the flickering of the dim candle, he can see her eyes, the outline of her thinned body, but he closes his eyes because now is all that matters.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

It takes years until it happens, until, just like Mother, she experiences the same headaches, fatigue, and lack of appetite. When he asks, she shrugs off her illness and tells him to spar with the other knights and to spend time with his Mother, but Arthur is tired of not being told anything, and with Father out on a hunting trip and Mother tending the rose garden, now is the perfect time to ask.

In the evening, he finds her sitting at a table in the library with a stack of books beside her. Her head is propped up by her arm, which rests on the table, and a sole candelabra lights the vast area; the darkness cups the scene like the faded edges of an ancient book.

“You were born of magic, Arthur,” she tells him before he says anything. She briefly glances at him, but he catches a glimpse of the dark lines beneath her eyes before she closes the book and places it aside. Burying her face into another tome, she mutters to herself and draws an imaginary line on the page as she sifts through the sea words. It’s written in some foreign tongue that he cannot read, but recognizes one of the words: _drylic_. _Magic_.

“Your mother desperately wanted a child for herself to solidify her bond with your father, but she could not conceive. I told her that I might be able help, but no spell such as the one that caused your birth existed at that time.” Nimueh sighs as she quickly leafs through the book’s pages. She lands on another page, quickly looks through it, and with more force – anger – she turns to the next page.

“It was too much for her, and the spell sapped the strength from her body, so Mordred and I wove a spell to prolong the process, hoping that we might be able to find a cure in time,” she stops and adds, mumbling to herself, “wherever he’s gone.” Nimueh places her hands upon her lap and sits up, turning towards him.

“I said that it became too much for her, so I transferred the spell to myself. I’m stronger than most, although I was _much_ stronger in my youth. What an old Priestess I am,” she chuckles, and she continues, her voice taking a more serious tone.

“Arthur—” she begins, and in his head, he hears her voice, trembling and faltering unlike it was just a second ago, weighted and desperate.

 _Arthur. I’m dying_.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Nimueh was too weak, so Aredian had to kill him. But Sigan hadn’t even put up a fight.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

A week after Sigan attacks, Arthur finds him in the dungeons.

He wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place because Father had always said that they were off limits to him, but Morgana had dared him with _that_ smile, and he surely wasn’t going to let this one go.

Entering the dungeons was easier that he had initially thought– all he needed was the key, supplied to him by no one other than Guinevere. (Never mind how she was able to snatch the key from Uther and replicated replicate it in time before he noticed its absence, but Arthur knew that Morgana could be quite cunning…)

The first thing that hits him is the putrid odor of fetid water and waste. It almost makes him gag, but Arthur daren’t show any signs of discomfort in front of Morgana or Gwen, so he clamps the torch tighter in his sweaty palm as he ventures farther into the darkness.

He passes by endless rows of empty, straw strewn cells separated by gritty walls held together by crumbling mortar, and he doesn’t understand how something so weak could contain a sorcerer. And Arthur is far from being scared. In fact, he’s quite bored.

One of rusty iron cell doors is open, and he carefully opens the creaking door and peers into the cell; he overturns the pile of hay with his boot and finds that it is speckled red on the other side. Arthur kneels down and takes off one of his black leather gloves to feel the hay – blood, lots of blood, still crimson and warm, and what Arthur finds most curious is the fact that the blood is swirled across the ground.

“Who are you?” someone suddenly speaks, and Arthur turns towards the direction of the voice to a boy so terribly pale, years older than him but severely underweight, with large rune-inscribed manacles around his sore-infested wrists. The boy desperately presses his hands to his eyes and his body against the wall, and Arthur soon realizes that the torchlight is hurting his weakened eyes, so he quickly smothers the flame and stands in the darkness.

“Arthur?” the boy hesitantly asks, his voice, weak and trembling.

This voice is familiar, too familiar—not gruff like it used to be, not echoing inside his head and carefully caressing his thoughts. Despite the strange inflection of each word, he can still hear the familiarity of his name upon the boy’s tongue.

“Mordred?”

“Arthur,” he repeats, this time more affirmatively. The clanging of chains against stone and the rustling of hay echo in the silence as the boy repositions himself.

“Aredian – there’s something wrong. I-I don’t understand,” Mordred’s voice trembles, and in the darkness, Arthur can hear him snivel.

“What happened?”

“Kara. She’s _dead_. He killed Kara. I don’t know _why_ ,” he sobs.

“Who?” Arthur asks and kneels beside Mordred, feeling around in the muddled black until his hand lands on the boy’s arm, but Mordred flinches away from his light touch. Arthur stands up when he hears the faint thud of a distant footstep, and he tells Mordred that he will return.

And Arthur leaves Mordred in the darkness.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

It is a wonder how the screams cannot be heard beyond the dungeon, echoing everywhere, lashing against the hard stone walls and hurting ears that are sensitive to the delicate sounds of the hunt. And in a corner, Arthur safely hides.

What he had just witnessed – how Aredian had treated the boy, Mordred of all people, how he had dragged his thin body across the hard dungeon floor and how he had literally thrown him into the disgusting blood-soaked hay. The screams, void of any strange inflections like the words he had spoken to him yesterday, were now pure cries of agony, and they sounded like they belonged to any other man, and not to a boy who was so quiet and shy and so terribly powerful. The only other sounds that dare to pierce the silence as Aredian digs the dagger beneath Mordred’s pale skin are questions upon questions about the Crystal Cave.

Arthur is close enough to watch the torchlight bleed into the darkness.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

When he is certain that everyone is asleep, Arthur navigates through the tunnel without a torch, his passage dimly lit by pale dabs of moonlight shining through the numerous cracks in the walls. After Mordred’s made it through the hidden passage behind the shield in the armory, he will expose Aredian. He will tell Nimueh first and alert Father later, lest Aredian grow suspicious…

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Arthur awakens to Morgana beside him in his bed, and she looks at him sorrowfully, full of guilt. And when she asks him what happened to him the night before, a crease forms between his brows because he honestly doesn’t remember, but she keeps asking him, over and over again, like she believes he’s lying to her, but princes don’t lie, and she should know better than to question his honor.

He tells her to stop, and strangely enough, she does relent, but sometime during the week, when he is putting away his sparring equipment and she is still in her armor, she states quite simply, stoutly, “There’s large lump on the back of your head.” She raises her eyebrow. “How did it get there?”

Yes, he knew that it was there because that area’s been tender for the entire week, but he hadn’t thought much about it because knights get bruises all the time. He honestly doesn’t remember how this particular one came to be.

“Close your eyes, Arthur,” she says as she brushes her hand up and down his chainmail-protected arm—

That’s when he closes his eyes; that’s when he _sees._

_Crimson running, streaming... laughing… blue eyes, half open—_

“I don’t want to!” he screams and tears his arm away from her touch. He reopens his eyes to Morgana, who is staring at him, looking so proud and valiant, and Arthur wants nothing more than to, than to—

“It happened,” she begins, but Arthur can’t make out the rest of her words because he’s covering his ears.

And he can _hear_ —

_…the bloodcurdling screams of one who is so young, and laughing, loud, manic laughing… his own voice mingled with these displeasing sounds… hollow and echoing in the cave…_

“Arthur. Something happened the night you visited Mordred, when you decided to save him.”

How did she know? How? Because…

_Everyone is asleep, save him, save him. Asleep. The key latches in the lock so easily, just two doors holding back the prisoners and nothing more._

_As he turns around the corner, something sharp hits the back of his head, and he can barely make out the blurry outline of a man before he succumbs to the inky blackness. Upon awakening, he quickly stands up, which exacerbates his terrible headache, and wildly looks around. Clutching the rusty iron bars to steady himself, he finds Mordred on the ground in a cell across from him; Aredian is kneeling beside the boy._

_When Aredian first plunges the dagger into the boy’s arm, Arthur screams for him to stop._

Stop, stop, stop!

_The louder he yells, the louder Aredian laughs, and the deeper he digs._

_And Mordred’s barely conscious when the first jab of pain interjects his murky thoughts because he has trained himself to block out sound and meaning – the sound of tearing flesh, the consequences of this mark – but, oddly enough, he can hear Arthur’s voice somewhere in this muddled black… he cannot grasp their meaning or collect his disjointed thoughts, and he is too tired to scream and further ruin his already raw throat, parched and dry, now being wetted by something gritty and warm, salty and thick…_

(He’s in the forest with Kara, and they’re sitting above the stream with their fingers threaded together…)

_Arthur pounds his fists upon the rusty bars and tears stream down his cheeks, but Aredian only grins at him._

(They don’t look at each other, but Mordred carefully feels her consciousness. And she is so terribly tired…)

 _And Mordred._ Oh _._ _Oh_ , Mordred _!_

_Mordred barely hears someone screaming his name, but in this world, it is meaningless and shrouded by that like a figure behind a thick haze of dust sifting through the air…_

(Kara throws a pebble into the stream, and it goes hop, hop, _hop_ across the rippling surface before sinking to the bottom of the shallow water. He carefully flicks his wrist; the pebble resurfaces and skips its way back into her open palm.)

_Crimson running, streaming... laughing… blue eyes, half open, unblinking… vacant… gold mingled with blue, the glint of a dagger…_

(It’s skipping; he’s using his magic and is now lost in a world _so tangible_ , but she always brings him back. Her words – her being, he feels, is intertwined with his, and he knows that it this is his destiny.)

…

…

...

_…someone clutches his arm –the iron bars are horizontal – weren’t they vertical just a moment ago…? It was just a moment ago… no, it wasn’t… yes, it was… headache, pounding, pounding, throbbing… the hands are soft…_

_…Why is his right cheek so cold?_

_…_

_…_

_“Arthur?”_

_The voice hollowly echoes off the walls, and it is soft and soothing. He hears his name called several more times, and fingers delicately brush over his cheek. He tries to turn his head to see the person’s face, but it is too heavy and his eyelids won’t open._

_The person helps him to his feet, pulls his arms around their shoulder, and Arthur blindly allows himself to be lead._

…

…

…

“Why?” Arthur asks Morgana after he stands up from his fallen position on the floor, humiliated and angry. “Why did you want me to remember?” he screams at her, and she allows herself to be backed into the wall.

“How could I— How did you-?”

Morgana closes her eyes and sighs, and what happens next, he doesn’t immediately comprehend, and initially he thinks that he’s seeing things. For her, it’s simple, really, the lifting of a sword by nothing other than magic itself. She smiles as the momentary flash of gold warms her eyes and the thrill of excitement sings in her veins.

“Magic is not yet banned, Arthur, but it will be; I feel it in my bones. I _see_.”

“Why now?” he asks, fumbling over words, over thoughts.

“Arthur, haven’t you seen? We don’t yet feel its affects because we are royalty. The earth is dry, the crops are failing, and livestock is dying.”

Morgana lowers her eyes, “It’s magic.”

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Mother frets about him and his lack of sleep, and when he’s given his daily rations of food, he takes just a bite and sets it aside. _Royalty_ – how Morgana had spit out the distasteful word like a bitter poison.

Everyone senses that something’s wrong with him, but Arthur shrugs off their concern with excuses. What he doesn’t want to tell them is what’s truly bothering him, not even Morgana, because whenever he closes his eyes, he can see Mordred screaming and dying _over_ and _over_ again.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Sorcerers from across the land flock to Camelot, where there is a sizable reward for those who are able make food or water – all fail.

Arthur sees the ancients come to court one day and is curious about their wrinkled skin and pale complexion. Their dark hoods obscure their eyes and cast long, oblong shadows over their faces, and Arthur can still see a hint of their withered lips in the torch-lit throne room. And even their magic, revered as it had been for hundreds of years, cannot call forth the rain.

Uther shouts at them, pounds the table, and screams at them about how there are lives at stake, about how merciless and cold-blooded they are being, but the ancients only tell him that the gods will not allow them to enter this realm of magic before vanishing.

The King calls forth the High Priestesses Morgause and Nimueh, and neither are able to bring forth water or food.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Drought turns into famine, which quickly spreads over the land. Food rations are installed. The cook grumbles because of the lack of ingredients, but she never complains around Uther, who carefully supervises the kitchen.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Hunger pulls at his stomach, and sparring practice tires him more it used to. Mother’s roses are leathery, faded, and cracking.

“Are we—Are we going to die?”

Morgana takes off her gloves and massages her sore hands.

“Of course, eventually.”

“I mean now – soon.”

She looks at him again, slight tears lodged in her eyes.

“No.”

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

When Arthur hears the first peals of thunder, he thinks that he’s finally lost it; he had seen how delirium twisted the minds of men, distorting their view of reality as if through some trick mirror.

Just last night, Aulfric was executed. He was a respected elder who helped to maintain the good alliance between Camelot and the sidhe, but starvation and dehydration led to his demise when he began accusing Morgana of evil falsehoods. Last night, Aulfric was hung for treason. Next to him, with her neck crooked at the same odd angle, dangled his daughter, who had desperately pleaded on her knees in the great hall for herself to die along with him. (Two less mouths to feed.)

And there they hung, together, with their wrists crossed and arms tightly fastened behind their backs, and Arthur looked at the strange luminescence of their clothes, which clung to their sweat-ridden bodies just before they were whipped into the air.

Almost – but not quite dead, the knights set fire to them.

(Evil spirits must walk the world between the Living and the Dead.)

When Arthur was little, he asked about their shimmering clothes, and Father called it the work of a fine artisan, but now that he watches them hanging from the gallows, he sees the colors gradually fade; a once radiant gold dissolves into a weak, translucent brown; a once rich blue disintegrates into a confused, opaque blue, diminished in its glory.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Arthur stands in the rain and lets the water soak through his clothes and run down his neck until he begins to shiver, but the water, _oh,_ the thirst he had felt for several months now – quenched. At the back of his mind, he fears that the rain will leave again, so he stands outside and closes his eyes, savoring the moment as he listens to the people roll large barrels outside to collect the water whose worth is like that of gold, the young children giggling as they splash in the big puddles.

Someone pulls at his arm, and he opens his eyes to Gwen, whose tears are mingled with rain. She takes him inside and urges him to move more quickly. Together, they run through the corridors and burst into the room, _her_ room.

He’s certain that she’s sleeping… her cheeks are rosy. It’s like before when he entered the room and fell asleep by her bedside. Her cheeks are rosy.)

Nimueh is on the floor, weeping and shaking as she trails her fingers over Mother’s face, sleeping – yes.

(There’s nothing to cry about. Please stop those horrid sobs; it’ll only wake Mother. She needs her sleep.)

Arthur is quickly escorted out of the room when Father arrives, but even from behind the closed door, he can hear the ugly screams piercing through the calming rain, the harsh sounds being carried through the tunnel-shaped corridors, tearing through the air until all meaning is lost.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Arthur curls his fingers around the mirror, clenches his eyes shut, and lightly runs his shaking fingers over the smooth, cold surface. He peaks at the mirror.

“Mother?” he says at the blank surface, and he suppresses a sob. Maybe Nimueh was wrong…

“Mother?” he repeats, lips trembling and eyesight blurring. A tear falls upon the mirror.

And she smiles at him.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Magic is banned, and Nimueh disappears.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Normal, everyday, always…

It’s normal now to hear the children screaming as they are lead into the throne room, condemned and bound by the manacles. He had seen a little boy’s wrists surrounded by weeping wounds and sores, oozing blood as he was lead to the vat of water.

Many knew not how to swim. They kick their legs in the water, splashing great waves onto the floor while frantically searching for the air, trying so desperately to _breathe._ Screaming and drowning, the water crashes around their ears and enters into their lungs, but if they dare to surface, their heads are forced under again and again until the gargling and the furious foaming water calms.

Once a child had survived, and the room had already been cleared because the killings were so frequent now that the crowd didn’t bother to linger. Afterwards, sometime in the evening, a guard always takes the bodies and lights a pyre, standing by the fire until the flames have died down low enough for him to take the manacles from the ashes and bring them back to the castle.

Arthur is alone when he hears the boy inhale. For just a second, he can see the boy’s head, the beads of water running down the outline of his face, his hair clinging to his skin; his blue lips are trembling and his skin is pale. They just stare at each other, and Arthur looks away as a knight enters the room and pushes him under again.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Everywhere, _everywhere._

The sight and the smell fill the corridors of his dreams.

Arthur will never forget walking through the long tunnels in the dungeons and watching each extend his dirty, thin arm towards him. He’s following behind a guard who’s throwing stale bread into the cells and watching them hungrily devour each tiny morsel like it is food from an extravagant banquet. Their eyes are sunken – yet hopeful— as he passes them by, and a deep pit digs itself into Arthur’s stomach.

Arthur will never forget the massive bonfire, the heat, and _the smell_.

No, Arthur will never forget their bodies, stripped naked and piled unceremoniously on top of each other in a large field far away from the bloodstained walls of Camelot. When the fire is first lit, there isn’t enough flesh – not enough on those scantly bodies to feed a flock of ravens – for it to catch, so the knights, many of whom he had trained with, throw various twigs and chunks of wood onto the burning mass.

Unlike the eyes of those who are hung or drowned, most are closed, peaceful. And the pit digs itself deeper into Arthur’s stomach.

Hair catches before skin, and the fat of the flesh quivers in the scorching heat. Like butter, the skin melts off the fire-lashed bones, and it takes half a day to feed the hungry flames.

No, _no._ Arthur will never forget the thick, black smoke bellowing into the air, the fumes choking his lungs and stinging his eyes. In a land where each is quick to accuse and condemn, Arthur is a spectator in a spectator-less land.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_Their words travel down the long corridors before meeting Mordred’s ears._

_One event had finally come to pass - the one that would decide the outcome of the future._

_And he has seen this moment, like he has many others, in the Crystals and knows that all will eventually come to pass; it is just a matter of time. Mordred plops himself down upon the grit-covered floor at the news that is old to him, and the days continue on with their meaningless monotony._

_Weeks later, after the girl is thrown into his cell and neither speaks for several days – no, not until_ it _happens – it isn’t he who begins the conversation; it’s the girl. Freya._

_“We were quite young, but I was just a bit older than he. He never noticed me and seemed quite lonely until he met Will,” she pauses. “Once, I followed him into the woods and saw him use magic, and it was the most beautiful thing, the butterfly.” Freya picks at the manacles around her wrists and looks at Mordred._

_“I’ve never seen anyone, not even a Priest, create a life in such a way that he did.”_

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.


	9. Chapter 9

_“Because they’re_ my _people!” Morgana yells, and Arthur buries his head in his hands._

 _“You_ can’t _join with them now,” he desperately pleads, “People are dying out there, people like you being killed by–”_

_“–Father.”_

_Arthur sighs. They’ve been yelling at each other now, back and forth, for a good several hours. Father’s been out on a hunting trip all morning, and should return shortly._

_“Morgana, please… Remember what happened you saw just a year ago? I… I don’t want to see that again, what we saw at the river that day. Morgana,” he extends his arm towards her, and she comes closer to him. “I love you, sister, dearly. Don’t make me see you like that – like Mother.”_

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

“Run!” Arthur yells at him, and Merlin hesitates.

Arthur never addresses him directly. _Never._ And he usually avoids giving him orders. 

“Run!” he insists, gesturing widely towards the woods. The slight wavering in his eyes tells Merlin that something is wrong, and he holds Arthur’s gaze for a moment before turning around and sprinting into the forest.

Zigzagging his way through the woods, he breaks an occasional twig, but just like Arthur, he learned at a young age how to hunt. After all, a peasant living in Ealdor who both hunted and harvested was... valuable. Some of the children had joked that he was so light on his feet because he weighed barely more than a twig, but Hunith had told him that he had inherited his keen sense of hearing and sight from Father…

He leaves no visible trail behind him. 

Where is he headed? He does not know.

The shadows of the tall trees gradually lengthen as the sunlight combs through the woods and retreats from the sky. After running for several hours, his legs begin to cramp and he slows his pace to avoid injury. Eventually he finds himself in a clearing where a woman is sitting on a log and tethering a tiny scroll to a white raven that Merlin recognizes as Morgana’s bird. 

Even though he doesn’t announce his presence, she turns to look at him as though she knew that he was standing there all along. She smiles politely and when he slowly approaches her, she immediately grabs his arm and closes her eyes; her body grows rigid and still. Beneath her closed eyelids, her eyes dart side to side as if she’s watching something quickly flit by.

A few moments later, she opens her eyes and frowns. “Come,” she motions for him to follow her and they walk in the woods for a short while.

“Aredian’s not far behind you. We haven’t much time,” she begins.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

How could _he_ betray her? 

She had not foreseen this future, or maybe she was so scared that something like this might possibly happen that she had tried _too_ desperately not to see this future, the right future. Her sister was much better at weeding out the false or unimportant premonitions, even though she was younger and less experienced.

 _Him_ , of all people.

She had sensed his arrival well before he came and thought nothing of it; in fact, she was quite pleased that he had finally decided to come to her. Yet she remained as oblivious to the void that was closely following at his heels as Emrys was to his bound magic: he had been unconsciously leading them to her. 

Only too late did she see the truth.

Today, she watches the king’s lips move, but doesn’t listen to his well-rehearsed speech. His condemnation is nothing more than a speech used to excite the people and prove himself, once again, to be their all-powerful leader.

Her eyes do not stray from the king. No, she will not give him any pleasure by displaying signs of weakness. 

But the spelled manacles do bother her. 

Is she the first High priestess to be bound? As Morgause rubs the inflamed area around her wrists with her fingers to sooth the oozing sores, she wishes that she could also assuage gaping void in her being; the vacancy of magic, the loss of _sight_. Where has it gone?

_Unreachable, distant, detached._

“Pursuant to the laws of Camelot, I, Uther Pendragon, have decreed that for the crime of sorcery, there is only but one sentence that I can pass.” 

Morgause narrows her eyes as Aredian stands up to the podium and pulls out the dagger from the folds in his robes. He holds up the blade high above his head so that all of the people who have gathered around the execution block today can see. 

_Breathe_ in _and out._ In _and out._

As the man steps behind her, she can feel the warmth of his breath tickling the small hairs at the back of her neck.

 _No, Morgana is not in the crowd. Emrys isn’t watching_ , she tries to convince herself. 

She stares at the king, and the king stares back at her.

And the blade comes down heavy upon her heart.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Arthur had betrayed him?

 _No_ , but it couldn't have been Arthur’s idea. _No_ , Arthur is an honorable man and nothing like his father. He wouldn’t betray him like that, impossible… Perhaps Arthur needed to convince his father that he is still loyal to him?

Merlin’s thoughts are racing, and anger burns at the corner of his mind. Arthur would _not_ betray him, _no_ … 

“–were my mother’s. Oh, _oh. Yes._ When I was younger, I enjoyed reading those books – indeed. Of course, now, you’ve grown _much_ too old for them…”

Merlin stops outside Arthur’s chambers when he hears the voice of a female talking within. Arthur’s at sparring practice, and he isn’t expecting any visitors today, or if he is, then he’s forgotten to tell him, but he’s usually good at remembering things… Perhaps it is Gwen.

Standing on a chair, he peers through the wire mesh and finds a lady in a silver and silk-threaded gown. Her golden hair curls around her shoulders as she spins around, laughing as her dress flows outwards.

He frowns and then sighs. Not this woman _again_. 

Merlin opens the door and stands in the middle of the room for a few moments, waiting for her to notice him. Growing impatient, he clears his throat loud enough for her to hear, but she continues to dance around the room to phantom music before collapsing on the bed.

“Excuse me?” he finally says, perplexed and confused. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

She suddenly sits up, and Merlin’s thinks that it’s because she’s finally noticed him, but she isn’t looking at him; instead, she’s staring at the opposite wall in wondrous fascination. A wide grin forms on her face before she collapses on the bed again and brushes her fingers across the red velvet sheets as if they are priceless jewels.

“ _Excuse_ me,” he says.

This time he catches the attention of the woman who looks at him curiously. The crease between her brows softens as she realizes something.

“You–” she points at him. “You’re Merlin, right? Arthur’s manservant.”

“Yes.”

She stands up and slowly walks up to him, her smile fading and eyes growing wide with fear. Clutching her hands to her chest, she desperately asks him, “Where is my baby? Where has he gone?” 

Merlin hesitates and opens his mouth to say something, but closes his mouth when the woman’s demeanor changes as her eyes catches sight of something behind him. 

She talks to herself as she walks up to the open closet. 

“Oh yes; I picked this lace myself.” She delicately trails her fingers up and down one of Arthur’s good linen shirts, the kind that he only wears on holidays. Hugging the fabric to her chest, her eyes drift back to his.

“Are you actually, _genuinely_ – perhaps – just speaking to _me_?” She asks, almost in disbelief.

Merlin stares at her. “No.”

Her face falls and he realizes that she hasn’t gotten the joke.

“Of course,” she mumbles before leaving the room.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

The man curls his dirty fingers around the thick, rusty bars. 

“He doesn’t exist.”

“No.”

“I don’t have a son?” he asks, speaking the words slowly, carefully.

“You don’t have a son.”

The man nods his head and slowly sits down upon the tangled pile of hay. He covers his eyes with one of his trembling hands as he desperately tries to understand. “But I saw him the other day.”

“He is not your son. The king is trying to get to you again.”

“He told me that he was _my son_ ,” the man insists.

“Anyone can say that.”

The man ponders this idea, and after a few moments, comes to the conclusion that she’s right.

Wringing both hands in front of him, he angrily says, “Without an heir, what are dragons? _Beasts_ and nothing more. What are dragonlords without their dragons? They are like _me_ , useless, _useless!_ ” 

His voice reverberates throughout the dungeons, and the wall torches hiss in the silence as a cold draft whips its way through his cell.

“What do you want, Morgana?” he asks, his voice taking a much softer tone.

“Emrys needs your help – he needs your dragon,” she begins, but the man isn’t listening; instead, he’s picking at a piece of hay that’s stuck fast to the floor of his cell. 

“ _Nothing_ ,” he says to himself, “Just useless. Without a master, the beast is feral.” He shakes his head with disgust.

“He needs your dragon,” she repeats, and he looks up at her and nods his head in agreement.

Balinor stands up again when she picks up a long, cloth bag and pulls out Excalibur.

Carefully running her fingers down the blade’s spine, she says, “Only a dragonlord can free the dragon itself – even if he is bound.” 

Again, he nods.

She reaches into the folds of her cloak and takes out a key which she fits into the rusty lock. With a sharp click and a slight push, the door opens with a loud creak. 

Balinor hesitantly steps outside his cell and looks around uncertainly; he has known nothing but four corners and three walls and the fire-lit wall sconce through the metal bars, burning in front of him each day and night. He has heard only the screaming voice of silence, and the muted rustling of leaves. He has felt only the cruel whip of cold drafts and mice biting at his fingers.

What outside this cell exists? 

He does not remember, for he has forgotten the days when he used to desperately cling to his memories to keep them alive, replaying them in his head each day, each hour, to keep himself sane. But nothing happened as the monotonous days wore on…

Within minutes, they reach the caves.

 _You have come,_ the dragon voices in his head. As he sits up to greet his old master, the heavy chain swings back and forth, clanking against the cave’s walls and dislodging a few small stones from its surface. 

_After all of these years._

Balinor walks down the steps and gently rubs the dragon’s leg, just below the metal brace.

“After all of these years,” he repeats, “Yes _._ ”

He lifts the sword high above his head-

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

…

…

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

“And who gave you this sword?” Uther asks in a firm voice as he toys with the metal. He places it on the floor in front of Balinor.

When the man keeps his lips sealed, Aredian strikes him across the face. Standing next to Arthur, Merlin flinches as the force of the blow sends his father to the ground. Balinor stands up and wipes the blood from his mouth, but stays silent.

“I did,” someone says, and all heads turn towards Morgana who stands and picks up the sword from the ground. Defiance shines in her eyes, and as she turns towards Uther, she whispers to him, “ _I did.”_

“Sit back down,” Uther hisses in a low voice, but is promptly ignored. Instead, she walks up to Balinor and turns around to face the people.

Pointing towards Uther, she cries, “ _He killed_ _my sister_! He _murdered_ her, just like he murdered thousands of others during the Great Purge. She had no right to die, just like the rest.” 

She pauses for just a moment; everyone in the crowd is gasping.

Morgana looks at Balinor who slowly nods his head.

“No!” Merlin screams as her eyes briefly shine a molten gold and Excalibur sinks into Balinor’s chest. He falls over almost immediately, and a pool of blood rapidly spills across the wooden floor. Aredian runs up to grab Morgana, but she pulls out the sword and in a great wind, disappears.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_Mordred closes his eyes and turns to face the wall when another group of people is forced into the cell opposite his. But he can’t block out their screams._

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

_She lures him there with a promise that he will witness something never seen by man, and past dusk they wait beside the lake._

_It’s cold, the grass is damp, and Arthur’s hugs his knees to his chin._

_“Don’t you see them?” she asks, smiling broadly._

_With anticipation, he follows the direction of her eyes, which quickly flit across the lake in a strange manner, but he can only see the soft wrinkles of water smoothly gliding to the shore until the tide breaks each delicate ripple. Insects that dip their bodies into the water send circles across the mirror-like surface._

_Nimueh finds Arthur’s hand and twines her fingers around his. She tells him to close his eyes and—_

_Oh!_

_Timid at first, her magic, warm and familiar, makes his hand tingle. Hesitation slowly morphs into determination, and as the thrumming warmth gradually eases its way into his fingers and the palm of his hand, up his arm, and across his mind, he realizes that he had only experienced a hint of_ herself _before this. He can feel her consciousness, the slight hesitation ebbing at the edge of her mind as she exposes herself to him, and Arthur wonders if she, too, can read his mind._

_She squeezes his hand, and he opens his eyes to the faeries, each a bright blue cerulean, ethereal, dipping their tiny glowing bodies and hands into the silver-like water, laughing – he can hear them, laughing – like tiny bells beside the crickets. Their translucent wings are ribbed like that of dragonflies, and he wants nothing but to touch them, to feel their magic, too, but just as he leans forward to brush his fingers along the edge of one, he lets go of Nimueh’s hand and the scene before him quickly disappears._

_And a sharp sting runs horribly up his hand to his arm. It, too, burns his mind, and he can see the pain in her eyes from the break in their connection. They don’t speak but sit in silence beside the lake until the sun peaks above the horizon._

_She brings him back to Camelot and has Gaius look at his arm. Afterwards, when they think that he is asleep, he can hear them arguing through the wooden door, but he daren’t listen carefully to their conversation because that would be dishonoring the knight’s code._

_Only two words meet his ears: Crystal Caves._

 

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_Mother’s dressed in her wedding gown with a pale blue cluster of tiny flowers braided into her locks. In the sunlight, her golden-threaded dress shimmers like the water, and her locks softly tussle in the light breeze._

_This morning, he had found her belongings neatly placed outside in little baskets and didn’t understand what they were doing there. He was in the process of returning the items when a servant entered the room and harshly grabbed a silver pitcher from his grasp._

_“What do you think ye’r doin’?” she hollered at him, face turning a bright red, “King’s orders. Everything’s to be put into the dungeons. I spent_ all _morning organizing and hauling this stuff, and you just come along and undo everything I’ve done!” she said before storming out the room._

_He helped her put everything back, but he kept the mirror and the book because... because—_

_Parting the waters on both sides, the small wooden raft soon disappears into the distance. Within moments, a small fire alights, and the high priest announces the queen’s death._

_Behind him, Arthur can hear the servants crying, the crickets and the flag of Camelot tossing in the breeze. Some servants have brought neckerchiefs to hide their tears behind the long strips of fabric while others use their hair wraps, their locks fanning out over their shoulders and quivering with every sob._

_And Arthur wishes that they just would stop crying because he is now too old to cry._

_He angrily pushes away the residual sting of unshed tears in his eyes and digs his fingernails into his sweaty palms to prevent himself from reacting, but he cannot control the chatter of his teeth as the cold wind whips across his face. In the moist stickiness of the summer afternoon, the mosquitoes bite through his pants, and he focuses his thoughts on last week’s tournament. Lancelot had won, Mother was there._

_And the burning raft turns ‘round the bend and disappears._

 

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

The great dragon bats its wings in the air, savoring the sweet freedom of the wind, but he does not venture far from the citadel; the bond between dragon and master pulls at his soul. He will not travel far without him, for dragon and master are kin.

Many of the horrors that had been foretold many years ago had come to pass, and it was his line of dragons that was chosen to serve in the line of Emrys. Balinor had been his master for many years, and they served each other well. But the Last Stand finally came.

On the battlefield, his master suffered a wound at the leg from the dagger forged from the same ore as the legendary blade of Excalibur, and he felt his master’s pain. He attempted to heal the gaping wound but knew that only the man who wielded the dagger could save him, and so he submitted himself to the king and the twisted madman.

In the dungeons, when both were bound, Balinor could no longer call him. But he, the epitome of magic itself, could not be silenced, so he spoke to the man as the days passed—monotonous, painful days of darkness—and he felt the metallic pang of the blade each time the madman pierced his master’s skin. He roared when the blade first entered his skin; he roared when it was his last.

When the young warlock first arrived in Camelot, he had touched his consciousness and found that the boy was inexperienced and bound but more powerful than his father or any other man he had ever served – he was truly Emrys.

And Balinor had to die. It was destiny, and the dragon let the witch twist him.

Hatred burns in the mind of the dragon, for the king murdered many of his kind and more, so he sits in a shallow cave and waits for Emrys’s call, the plea of a boy so malleable and so painfully new to life.

 

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Shaken, Merlin sits on Arthur’s bed and watches the gold of the sun gently fade from the glass window. The light oddly makes him think of the gilded mirror engraved with dragons, the one Arthur had told him never to touch. Merlin had seen the darkening of Arthur eyes in that moment and sensed the fear in his voice - even without his magic.

Merlin cleans the room as the day wears on, until darkness overcomes the chamber and he has to build a fire. Tapping into the small reserves of energy inside himself, Merlin lights the wood with magic and forms the burning embers into the likeness of a dragon he had once seen in an ancient book of fairytales. He enjoys feeling the wild spark inside himself, ignited once again and freed, as he makes the ember dragon flap its broad wings in the air, but he is soon forced to sever his connection with the flow of magic. Clenching his teeth and balling his hands into fists, he waits for the shock to run its course through his body, and yet he smiles and returns to his chores.

He picks up the last article of clothing from the floor and opens the ornamental cabinet. As he neatly places the folded shirt into the corner, the glowing edge of the mirror, buried beneath a neckerchief, catches his eyes. He moves the cloth aside and picks up the mirror, still swathed in a golden hue. Mesmerized, Merlin lightly traces its border, runs the pads of his fingertips over the uneven surface of engraved dragons, and looks further into its depths.

Suddenly, the chamber door slams shut. Merlin quickly throws the mirror back into the cabinet and frantically searches the room. Finding no one, he opens the door to the room and looks out into the corridors, just in time to see the taffeta gown brushing against the corner.

When he returns to Arthur’s chambers—this time hardly daring to look in the direction of the closet – he finds a large book lying open on the ground beside the bed. He picks up the heavy tome and closes it, searching the highly embossed and elaborately decorated cover for a title. On its back, his fingers touch a slick surface, smooth and cold. He flips over the book to find a mirror inset into the leather – glowing and engraved.

Upon touching the mirror, the tome opens, and Merlin drops it - luckily onto the bed – and in a fury, the pages proceed to flip, sending great wisps of air through the room. It soon settles upon a page, and Merlin looks around and finds no one. He cautiously approaches the tome, sits on the bed, and glances at the curiously blank pages.

A large embellished “O” in wet, ebony ink paints itself onto the page and is soon surrounded by an intricate frame of intertwined rich reds and greens. Written in a smaller font, the remaining letters of the word appear, spelling out “Once.” As he continues reading, a delicate line of gold weaves its way along the rim of each page, and new words appear, still wet, as if they are being painted at the exact moment he is reading.

_Once there was a Sorcerer who claimed that he was the most powerful of all sorcerers. His magic was revered all across the land, and it is even said that he himself helped build the great kingdom of Camelot. Shortly thereafter, he disappeared from the land, searching for a cure, the ultimate cure: he proclaimed that he would only return once he had conquered death._

Merlin pauses when the fire, which has burned low, crackles, and the wind whistles through a sliver in the window. He returns to the tome. A new paragraph has just begun writing itself…

_The High Priestess and the King of Camelot had known each other since they were young, and they had grown to be great friends, like brother and sister, like kin. The kingdom flourished under their unique rule, for no other kingdom at that time condoned the alliance of a sorcerer and a king. A witchfinder was welcomed into the court to settle disputes of magic._

The page flips to the right – backwards – and when Merlin attempts to turn back to the previous page, it refuses to move. Although perplexed, Merlin continues reading…

_And for many decades, together, they toiled to build their kingdom, but all too soon, the great king longed for a heart._

Merlin traces the text with his finger. He distinctly remembers the story – _this_ story –that Will had told him one night as they laid together in the small cottage in Ealdor watching the fireflies they had caught the night before light up the glass jar. Will said that it was just a tale from Camelot and nothing more. He’d even made up his own ending, and yet, at this moment, Merlin has a feeling that there is more truth to this story than Will had originally thought. Merlin was scared when he had first heard it recited, and there’s just something about this retelling…

This time, Merlin hears the clopping of boots upon the stone floor. Arthur usually returns around this hour, and he quickly scurries across the room, tucking the book into the closet along with the mirror and tending to the fading embers just before he hears the click of the latch.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

He hadn’t expect to be so rudely awakened at such as late hour, but he has no chance to say anything before a hand clamps over his mouth. Eyes not yet adjusted to the darkness, Merlin blindly swings, hits nothing, and only stops flailing about when a person whispers, “It’s me. Arthur.”

“What are you doing here?” he whispers, soft enough so as not to awaken Gaius and yet loud enough to clearly portray his annoyance?

Arthur ignores his question and stands up. Motioning for the boy to follow him, Merlin can barely make out the soft silhouette of his body as he follows Arthur out of his room. They pass Gaius, whose eyes are closed and head is tilted gently to the side; he’s snoring quite loudly at his desk with a quill still poised in hand, and the wax from the fading wall sconces clumping into messy lumps upon the ground.

The creaking door that Merlin forgot to oil the day before barely makes a sound as Arthur opens it, a testament of his great hunting abilities, and Merlin follows closely behind. Before exiting into the outside corridor, Arthur presses himself behind a wall and holds up a hand. Merlin can hear the scuffing of boots and the muted clinking of chainmail as the guards make their nightly patrols around the corridor.

Arthur urges the boy onward, and they soon make their way into the tunnels beneath the castle and towards the dungeon. Unlike the night before when Merlin had visited his father, all torches had been extinguished, and nothing but darkness cloaks the path.

Upon reaching the dungeon’s entrance, Arthur removes a torch that was carefully concealed between two slabs of stone in the wall. Striking the flint, the flames quickly arise and they hurry into the dungeons before the guards make their rounds.

They pass the endless rows of cells, and Merlin knows that Mordred’s is just ahead. He can hear the drip, drip, dripping of the fetid water echoing off the walls, the rustle of hay as the wind sifts through the gritty walls, the soft patter of boots upon the dirt-scattered ground.

When they reach Mordred’s cell, Merlin stops, and Arthur tilts his head.

“Well, we can’t just leave him here, can we?”

Arthur looks into the cell and then back at Merlin.

“What are you talking about?” he quickly asks, gesturing with his hand for him to keep moving, but the boy merely sits on the ground in front of the cell, staring at something, _someone_.

“I can’t.”

“You have to,” Arthur says, and when the boy doesn’t move, he loses his patience and yanks him to his feet by his arm.

Merlin jerks away from Arthur’s grasp and takes a few steps back, brushing off his jacket arm and glaring at him. “I’m not going anywhere without Mordred,” he says between his teeth.

“Without _who_?” Arthur angrily asks, again making wide gestures towards the empty cells, his blood running cold at Merlin’s mention of the boy’s name. “No one’s even here,” he struggles not to yell.

Mordred looks at Merlin apprehensively and shakes his head.

Pointing towards the boy, Merlin says in a voice too loud, “ _Him!_ Can’t you see _him_?”

Arthur directs the torch’s light into the cell where old, stale hay carpets the floor. Nothing, no one. He throws the boy a look of annoyance.

“Don’t play me for a fool,” he darkly says.

Merlin grips the cell bars and presses his face against them. Squinting in the dim torchlight, he whispers softly enough to Mordred so that Arthur cannot hear him, “He’s acting like you don’t exist, and I don’t understand. What should I do?” Desperation lingers in his voice, but Mordred just stares at the ground and fiddles with the strings on his shirt, clearly ignoring him…

Arthur watches the boy talk to nothing, no one, just the darkness.

What was the boy seeing that he couldn’t see? Nothing. Maybe he was too late; maybe he should have let the boy go a few weeks earlier. But that would have been too suspicious – _right_? Father would have suspected, and Aredian would have brought him back immediately and perhaps even killed him. And now the boy is talking to the darkness. Had Aredian already driven him this mad? _Already_?

“Mordred,” Arthur thinks he hears the boy mutter again, and he shivers. Covering his eyes, he tries to calm his nerves by breathing _in_ and out, _in_ and out.

_“Close your eyes, Arthur,” Morgana says as she brushes her hand up and down his chainmail-protected arm—_

_That’s when he closes his eyes; that’s when he sees—_

No, no. This isn’t then; this is now. It’s gone, it’s over, it’s done.

Arthur opens his eyes to the boy who is still talking to himself, to a cold and empty cell. In the distance, he hears the soft thud of a step, the slight crackle of a torch as a person approaches them. He quickly extinguishes the flame with his foot and pulls Merlin by his arm, pressing himself and the boy close to the wall.

And Merlin feels the coldness, a strange numbness growing inside himself, his magic retreating.

_Unreachable, distant, detached._

The footsteps seem to fade, and yet again, Arthur gestures for the boy to follow him as he quickly hurries down the corridor. It takes him a few minutes to realize that the boy hasn’t followed him, and it isn’t until, until—

_He can hear the bloodcurdling screams of one who is so young, and laughing, loud, manic laughing… his own voice mingled with these displeasing sounds… hollow and echoing in the cave…_

No! That’s the past. This is now, now, _now_. These are just shadows of an extinguished past and nothing more.

Arthur waits for the nausea to subside, his nervous rasps to stop, before opening his eyes to, to—

_Crimson running, streaming... laughing… blue eyes, half open, unblinking… vacant… gold mingled with blue, the glint of a dagger…_

He clenches his fists and forces the memory out, out, _out_!

And he opens his eyes to the boy. _No._

By the dim light of the outside, he can see the faint silhouette of the boy, lying on the ground, arms and legs curled inwards towards his torso.

Dead?

It’s too dark, and he cannot see the blood, but he can feel it beneath his boots, sticky and slippery, like the morning dew on a grassy field. He kneels upon the floor, the pool of blood sinking into his leather pants, rests the boy’s head in his lap, and presses his fingers to his neck to check for a pulse. He can feel the knotted tissue of an old scar twining its way up the boy’s neck.

Nothing.

“Dammit!” he yells between his teeth, not caring about who might have heard him.

He finds the boy’s wrists, rides up his damp sleeves, and gently pushes up the manacle.

Nothing.

Arthur presses his hands against the wounds around the boy’s wrists to stave the flow of blood, and he can feel the liquid, still warm and still seeping out of the deep gashes.

“Come on. You’re stronger than this!” he growls to what he hopes is not just himself and then adds in a hushed whisper, “Than _him_.”

And what a stupid, _stupid_ plan, thinking that he could sneak a powerful sorcerer past Aredian’s nose! He knew that Aredian could sniff out a sorcerer among an entire crowd of people and that he had that ability to deflect any magical attacks. Now he had failed the Resistance, the Resistance and Morgana…

A pulse.

One breath, two breathes… three.

Unsteady, unstable, _alive_.

 

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

It’s too silence, too dark. It’s too dark.

_It’s too dark._

It hurts, Mother. Please make it go away.

_Stop it, please. It’s not nice._

They were bad men, Mother. They weren’t any good.

_I can’t feel it. Where is it? Where is my magic?_

Magic…?

_What are these things on my wrists?_

Mother, what’s that on my neck? How’d it get there?

_Is that you that I hear, Arthur? I’m here. I can’t move._

Where’s Will? Mother, don’t look at me like that. Where is he?

_Where am I? Where am I, Arthur? I can’t move._

 

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Frantically fighting against the throes of sleep, Merlin collects all of his thoughts and pinpoints the last of his energy into one thought, one desire: to wake up. His eyelids feel so weighted, his arms and legs so heavy, and it seems impossible to even move without the help of his magic. It stings as reaches for his remaining magic and it’s locked away ever so tightly that he soon gives up.

Willing himself to return, he forces himself to break through the murky darkness without his magic and opens his eyes.

Light cascades through the window, into the small room, and onto his bed. It blinds him for a moment before he turns over and pushes himself upright, wincing as his wrists burn much more than they used to. New bandages have been wrapped around each wrist but because the wounds are much deeper, the poultice hasn’t begun healed them as quickly.

Merlin walks around the room and picks up various shirts and boots. He finds his neckerchief neatly folded on the table beside his bed, and as he picks it up to tie behind his neck, a note falls from between the folds of the faded cloth.

_Rest well. George is temporarily replacing you while you are sick. Wash the leech tank._

He smiles at the last sentence, and while making up his bed, he finds a tome beneath his pillow – the one he had begun reading yesterday.

Before he touches its cover, the book opens and flips through itself until it settles on one section.

Ah, yes, the continuation of yesterday’s tale. Merlin sits on the edge of his bed and begins reading…

_The King found one, a peasant from a distant land, but she could not conceive. Seeking to please her king, the High Priestess delved into the forbidden realm of unused magic, and the king and his queen birthed a child whom she named ‘Arthur’._

As he reads faster, the words write themselves more quickly…

_The High Priestess fell in love with the witchfinder and together they birthed a daughter who was sickly, a disappointment to the public eye, so they kept her hidden until the boy they call Mordred found her and befriended her one day in a small cove in the woods._

_The consequences of the fertility spell were much larger than the High Priestesshad imagined. The queen suffered a terrible illness as the spell quickly sapped away at her strength, but the High Priestess and the boy who they call Mordred prolonged the sickness for a year in the hopes that they could find a cure._

_While the king despaired and the Prince was kept hidden from his mother, the great seer Morgana, arrived in Camelot. She, who had been secretly and carefully instructed by High Priestess Morgause, hoped to win the Prince’s loyalty, for she feared for the future she saw._

_A year passed and the king was driven nearly mad until the High Priestess transferred the source of the spell to herself._

He had heard of this before; it had happened just a few years ago. This is real, this is _real_ …

_The boy whom who they call Mordred disappeared sometime before the queen regained her strength, in search of the girl he had once found in the woods. He did find her again, with a fatal stab wound to her arm. Her body was cold, and her blood was cold, and he ran off to Camelot to tell the High Priestess. He knew that she was her daughter because once, in the small cove in the woods, he had peeked into the girl’s mind as he lulled her to sleep._

_The boy’s message never reached the High Priestess’ ears, for the witchfinder was afraid for himself and her, so he locked the boy away in the dungeons._

_Samhain was upon Camelot, and the Sorcerer returned. He disliked the castle, the architecture and the people within, for the ornaments he had carefully set into the stone had been rubbed away and replaced with barbaric animals and gaudy designs. The once prized round table he and the original king had created together, each carefully cutting the wood and burning in the inscriptions, had been set aside._

On the facing page, dots of bright ink, like tiny pools of colored water, slowly bleed into the parchment and slowly spread outward as though water had been carefully spilled upon the paper and the various colored inks were precisely flowing into a picture made of water.

By the red and golden colored light streaming through the stained-glass windows on the opposite sides of a room, Merlin recognizes the setting as the courtroom, but the atmosphere is different, more alive and rich with color. Dark brown chairs surround a large, highly-polished round wooden table, and at each setting, an inscription is burned into the table. Merlin recognizes one of the words. _Drylic. Magic._

And he knows that he has seen this table somewhere tucked away in a dark corner of the dungeons, collecting dust.

The page immediately flips and the story continues…

_Few remembered him and his great deeds, and this angered the Sorcerer._

_He spited the King by killing a select few of his best knights. They were dead even before their heads touched the ground. Infuriated, the witchfinder struck the Sorcerer in his heart with the dagger._

_Several days later, the witchfinder who was no longer the witchfinder, attracted by the boy’s pull of power, went down to the dungeons, and took Mordred’s life._

He isn’t—he can’t be—

_The High Priestess knew that something was wrong with the witchfinder, but she was too weak to do anything. The spell was quickly sapping away her strength, and soon she lost her touch with the Land. The earth no longer thrummed, and the sun no longer hummed in her veins like it had in her youth. A world of complete void stunned her, and she quickly transferred the source of the spell to the Land._

_As her strength slowly recovered, the earth dried and cracked and yielded no produce. Livestock perished and clouds no longer shielded the people from the blistering heat. The High Priestess had not the power to reverse the spell, so she and the King had to watch as their people died. And neither the blood and nor the carcasses of the dead could quench the thirst or fill the appetite of the impoverished Land._

_The King grew angry towards those who could not call forth the rain._

Many from Ealdor had died, too. But _he_ had been able to create a seed. He was able to make it—

_In the small village of Ealdor, a small boy brought forth the Rain, and the Land was reassured that Emrys lived. But in the great citadel of Camelot, the High Priest was revered by all._

_That same night, the queen died in her sleep, for the spell had transferred back to her. The king begged the High Priestess to bring his wife back to life, but she was weak and too afraid of the spell’s consequences. Lovesick, the king grew hostile towards his friend, his sorcereress, the High Priestess, and banished her from the citadel._

_Two months later, the Last Stand of the Dragons began._

_The Great Purge had started._

The text stops writing itself. Curious, Merlin flips through the pages, all of which are blank. Without any warning, the book flips itself to another page and picture begins painting itself. This time, the drops begin in the middle of the page.

It’s dark in the center of the drawing… there – that looks like a stone. More rocks, unevenly placed – it must be a cave. As the colors spread across the page, the darkness quickly morphs into a blue-white incandescent light that seems to be coming from these stones, these _crystals_.

At the edge of the drawing, a sword with ancient runes inscribed into its golden scabbard is propped up against the cave’s glowing wall.

 

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

Merlin rushes out of his chambers and into the square, neither caring about how completely exhausted he is nor about how much strain running is putting on his exhausted body. No, this is more important. He _has_ to tell Arthur.

Merlin stops short in the center of the square.

Where is everybody?

Silence.

No bustling of carts wheeling over the uneven cobblestones, no people yelling over each other in a noisy crowd—there are no voices, there are no people in the square.

Merlin walks towards the market and finds a woman slumped over a table at her fabric stand. He shakes her arm to awaken her; he touches the shoulder of a blacksmith who is asleep at his whetstone; he brushes the arm of a child fast asleep in his mother’s lap.

None awaken.

The smells of the market are still fresh in the air, and the fires still burn in the nearby cottages. The flags still sway in the gentle breeze, but the excitement and the bustling people have disappeared as if they never existed. Nothing and no one is in the sparring ground.

Merlin returns to the castle and nearly trips over the leg of a servant who is spread across the floor and snoring quite loudly. The red wine from the pitcher that must have fallen from the servant’s grasp has formed a large, red puddle on the floor.

He steps over the servant’s legs and the sticky mess and heads towards Arthur’s chambers and then Uther’s. Arthur is nowhere to be seen; the King is fast asleep at his table.

After searching the castle and finding neither Arthur nor Gwen, Gaius, or the knights, he makes his way towards Gwen’s cottage. Before he reaches the door, he can hear Gwaine’s uplifting laugh.

“Merlin,” Gwen says when he enters. “Morgana took Arthur this morning while you were still in bed.” She frowns. “Are you alright?” she asks when he leans against the doorway and takes in a deep breath.

Merlin sighs as he collects himself and his fading strength.

“I’m fine,” he weakly replies, and no one questions him.

“Of course she’s taken him,” he mutters to himself as he looks around the room. The knights are huddled around Gwen’s small table, which is littered with maps.

“You’re looking in all the wrong places,” he tells them, and the room falls silent. “Morgana has joined with Aredian because she was afraid that he’d take her magic if she hadn’t.”

He walks towards the table and takes a closer look at the maps.

“She’s taken Arthur to lure us to him,” he says as he searches the parchments. Nothing. Useless. Looking around the room, his eyes settle on one person.

“Gaius, do you know anything about the Crystal Caves?”

“Yes,” he begins. “Legend says that the Caves were where all magic began. Seers were the only people who could read the future from those special stones, but after the Great Purge, it vanished from maps, from public eye. It is rumored that only a select few can see the Caves and find the crystals within.”

Merlin clenches his fists and closes his eyes as his magic jolts through his body, and he can feel the pressure of Gwen’s arms around his shoulders. Still tensed, he points towards the windowsill.

A white raven with golden eyes and a small leather bag tethered to its leg hops onto Lancelot’s arm for a brief second before taking flight again and landing on Merlin’s arm. His leather jacket is thick enough to keep its talons from piercing his skin.

Gwen carefully removes the small piece of rolled up parchment, and hands it to Merlin who reads the message aloud:

_Follow the bird, and you will find Arthur._

 

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.


	11. Chapter 11

_Overhead, ravens circle the field, and dandelions tussle in the light breeze._

_Like a chaotic nightmare, limb by broken limb is scattered across the field (by the dragons. Look at what magic, too, has done. She can hear the soft clinking of chainmail as the birds’ talons dig into the dead flesh and their sharp beaks repeatedly pick at the festered meat. Her boots sink into the damp grass soaked in blood._

_Here, sprawled across the field, is the severed arm from the body of a knight too young. On one of his ringed fingers is an emblem that makes her think back to a year ago when she had gone to his wedding to bless the couple. Now the twisted sinews of his arm are intertwined with the slender blades of grass. She finds the rest of his mangled body not far from his arm. His eyes are opened far too wide; his face, white and expressionless. She scares away a crow that’s picking at an open wound on his leg, and it settles atop a helmet just a few yards away, watching and waiting._

_All of these lives mercilessly murdered... She can only be glad that Morgause managed to escape and that Balinor and his dragon are still alive, although they are now prisoners in the dungeons of Camelot._

_Swallowing the bile in her mouth, she walks through the field, carefully stepping over the destroyed, distorted bodies – some burnt to a crisp by dragon or mangled beyond any recognition by steel – and continues onwards towards the Caves. The stench of burnt and decaying flesh lingers over the field._

_She had thought it impossible for Uther to make such a rash decision; attempting to deplete the entire race of magic is_ madness _. Everyone knows that magic exists everywhere: the earth, the water, the air… the very heart of man. Yes, everyone knows that it was the Caves where it all began, the magic from within surfacing and seeping into the cave’s ancient stones. If Uther thinks it possible to destroy her people, then he will attempt to destroy their most sacred of places: the Caves._

_Finding it isn’t hard – and that is the problem._

_Brushing her fingers upon the rough walls, her fingertips tingle from the humming of the magic within. There is so much life here, so much magic – so much power._

_And with power comes greed._

_As she enters the tunnels, she lights the torches on opposite sides of the walls with her magic. Multiple paths lie, many of which are false and dangerous, but she listens to Magic, which guides her to its heart._

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

The steady _up_ and down, _up_ and down, and the methodic, hollow thumping of the horses’ hooves upon the moist earth gradually begin to lull him to sleep. It’s difficult for him to determine when his mind begins to drift because the thoughts just flow and never seem to have a definite beginning or end. Several times his head droops, but it’s never more than a few minutes before he recognizes that something’s wrong and jerks his head back up again to alertness, looking around to make sure that all of the knights and Gwen are together. Time seems meaningless, and he struggles to fight the battle between consciousness and unconsciousness.

Sometime later, Gwen, who had volunteered to ride with him, asks him why he is so exhausted, and after a brief moment of silence, he tells her that the powerful spell that was cast upon Camelot is affecting him. She seems to accept his answer and nods her head, gently tapping his shoulder whenever she notices that he’s drifting – but he knows that what he’s told her is a lie.

 _Gwen_ , he wants to say. _I’m dying._

In one of his muddled dreams, he finds himself repeating those exact words to Gwen. They’re back in Camelot sitting around Gaius’s desk, which is littered with musty-smelling papers that crinkle when picked up. A thick glob of melted wax sticks to a pile of papers, and a sweet-smelling spice in an open glass jar sits beside the melting candle. One moment they’re laughing and the next she’s crying, and he’s trembling, telling her that he’s sca– Gwen firmly shakes his shoulder, and Merlin abruptly awakens, quickly looks around, but relaxes when she gently rubs his back.

When a cave comes into view, the white raven with golden speckled eyes quickly darts away, and Lancelot raises his hand to halt the horses. They all dismount, and Gwen helps Merlin; Percival and Lancelot sandwich Merlin between them as they follow Leon, who carries a lighted torch, into the caves.

“Left?” Gwaine guesses as he looks again at the multiple winding paths. He begins walking in that direction, but Merlin holds up a hand to signal him to stop.

“No,” he slowly says, drawing out the ‘o’ as the words awkwardly fall out of his mouth. Merlin reaches towards the wall, and Percival and Lancelot keep him steady as he presses his palms to the uneven surface. The pulse of magic within is faint….

“Farthest one to the right,” he says and opens his molten-gold eyes, shaking his head as he attempts to ignore the dull sting that runs through his body.

For several more hours, Merlin guides them through the tunnels. As they approach the Cave’s heart, the strength of the magic increases, as well as the magnitude of the stings. He almost completely passes out at the end of the path, but after Gwen’s soothing voice brings him back, he brushes away any looks of concern with the lie that he had told Gwen earlier. They, too, seem to accept his answer. 

Soon, they find themselves in front of a large stone slab. Merlin carefully rubs the pads of his fingers upon the rock, feeling for any runes or ancient symbols that might be etched into its surface, but finds none. Closing his eyes, he places both palms on the slab and whispers words into it; a brilliant white outline begins to glow along the edges, and the stone moves aside.

The _light_!

For just a moment, the white radiance blinds them, and all they stand dumbly in the entrance. 

Merlin is the first to enter the cave of crystals, and he stumbles over a few loose rocks before resting beside a pillar of glowing stones. The luminous crystals are pulsing, and he can feel their warm, soft blue rhythmic undulations inviting him into its own heart. The translucent silence rings with magic.

Yes, this _is_ the true essence of magic itself. 

Unconsciously placing his hand upon the stone, he sinks deeper into the embrace of rich magic. A feeling that the Cave is telling him something washes over him, but he can’t quite make out any words, only one thought: to protect. 

And oh, how _familiar_ he feels in such a _strange_ place _!_

His connection to the Caves is severed when a harsh sting rips through his entire body. It seems to come from his hand, the one that was in contact with the stone, and he clutches it to his chest as he suppresses a cry.

“Emrys,” a voice interrupts the silence. 

A woman appears from behind a crystal pillar with the blade of a dagger held up to Arthur’s throat. As she slowly approaches Merlin, Gwen, Gaius and the rest of the knights congregate around him, protectinghim.

“Join us.”

Merlin looks up at the woman, Morgana, with anger flashing in his molten-gold eyes.

His response was a simple question that had no simple answer. “Why?”

A twisted smile forms on her lips, and she begins laughing. Her black curls carelessly bounce around her shoulders, but her hand remains steady, the dagger closely trained to Arthur’s throat. 

“Hurting Arthur won’t convince me to join you,” he threatens, but at the back of his head, he knows that he would never let any harm come to the prince. No, he is nothing like his father and nothing like Morgana either.

“Don’t worry. No one needs to be hurt, Merlin, no. _Not even Arthur_ – if you join me.” She loosens her hold on the dagger by a fraction. Her smile fades and she continues in almost a whisper. “Don’t you see? We can’t possibly win this.”

Suddenly, a woman with straight, black hair and a tattered red dress appears in front of him, partially blocking his view of Morgana and Arthur. He’s about to say something, but the woman raises her hand to silence him. Morgana doesn’t ask about her, Merlin understands that no one but he can see her.

When the woman delicately touches his bleeding wrists, a feeling of relief washes over him, and the stinging radiating throughout his body is substantially reduced. With the pain pushed aside, his clouded mind begins to clear, and his strength begins to return.

“He’s using you, Morgana. He will take your magic, just like he did all of the others – just like he took Morgause’s.” His words are less slurred and more comprehensible.

Pain twists in Morgana’s emerald eyes when he mentions her sister’s name, but he continues, maintaining eye contact with her, “Your sister died because he needed her strength so that he could defeat—”

He stops mid-sentence when rivulets of pain cut through his veins again. The woman touches his arm, and this time, not only does he feel relief and strength, but also the texture of warped magic being pulled from the caves. 

_Wait_ – this woman _is_ part of the caves. She _is_ the caves itself. _Nimueh_.

In that moment, the Void enters with Excalibur in one hand.

“Sigan,” Merlin says, and his eyes drift back towards Arthur who looks confused.

The man nods. “Good,” he says, quite pleased. “You _finally_ put one and one together. And do you happen to know what day it is?”

“Let him go,” Merlin says, rather than answering his question.

“Perfect, isn’t he?” the man answers, looking at his hands. “His hands are a bit stronger than mine,” he mumbles to himself before looking back up at Merlin and continuing, “No one ever thought that magic could affect Aredian. ‘He’s perfectly immune,’ they’d say.” 

He grinds the tip of Excalibur into the ground and raises his voice. “It’s because they were doing it _all wrong_. You have to get _inside_ , and once you’re in that pretty little head of his, he’s totally, _utterly_ defenseless. I thought of this plan. Me.”

Chuckling for a minute, he continues rambling on, speaking faster and faster, pacing back and forth, digging the tip of Excalibur deeper into the earth. 

“Poor old Mordred. After finding his dear Kara’s body in the woods, he went to Camelot to tell Nimueh about what had happened but ran into Aredian instead. Aredian locked him into the dungeons because he didn’t want the boy talking about the weak, sickly child he had with Nimueh and thereafter killed. Oh no, so he kept him there for a good while, but then _I_ came into the picture. The boy had so much _power_. He was my first,” Sigan smiles, but it quickly fades from his face.

“Aredian almost took himself back one Samhain because that’s when the Veil’s weakest, right? But now I have the power of hundreds of magic users _and_ a High priestess. I’m _much_ stronger than Aredian now.

“Today is Samhain,” he answers his aforementioned question himself. “Morgana is right; there is no way that you can win against me…”

As the madman speaks, Nimueh touches his arm again, and this time, however, the image of a dragon appears in his mind – his father’s, Balinor’s– sitting in a dark cave. Its eyes are molten gold with tiny tendrils of light swimming on their surfaces. The dragon utters a long, deep-throated cry that echoes off cave’s walls as it repositions itself to face Merlin directly.

A sudden power surges within his veins…

“….I am Sigan. I am immortal.”

Sigan opens his arms wide and smiles for a long moment before dropping Excalibur, and what happens next occurs so rapidly that Merlin suspects that magic was used to speed up the actions.

The madman rips the dagger out of Morgana’s hands and knocks both her and Arthur to the ground. Morgana’s black hair fans out beneath her, and before she is even able to catch her breath, Sigan kneels beside her, pulls out the dagger from his coat and shoves it deep into her heart.

Her high-pitched scream echoes off the cave’s shining walls, and blue tendrils of light begin racing up the spine of the dagger and twining themselves around Sigan’s arms. Blood gushes from the gaping wound in her chest, and Morgana gargles on the blood in her mouth when she tries to scream again. Her head sags to the side, and a thin line of crimson trickles down the side of her cheek.

Arthur attempts to stand up and the other knights begin to run towards their fallen friend, but Sigan merely uses his magic to hold everyone but Merlin in place.

“Morgana was right.” 

Still kneeling beside her body, Sigan nonchalantly wipes the blood from the dagger on the bottom of Morgana’s dress. 

“There is no hope,” he says as he leans over her body and caresses her long black locks.

“You’re mad,” Merlin finds himself saying, dumbfounded by the scene that’s just unfolded in front of him.

“Precisely.” He gestures towards Morgana. “Both you and Morgana care – or should I say _cared_ – about Arthur. And that was _your_ downfall. There’s always one person that you can find that will be someone else’s weakness.”

Sigan stands up, stretches his limbs and walks up to a large, glowing slab of rock. Placing his palm upon the stone and closing his eyes, the vibrant white fades into a murky grey, and Sigan smiles as he looks back at Merlin.

“Legend says that those who enter can never exit. That’s why Nimueh melded herself into the caves, to protect them, right? None of us can exit it now. You’re trapped; I’m trapped,” he gestures towards the rest. “…Then I _will_ be the strongest sorcerer in the world.” Seeing Merlin’s eyes flicker to his friends, Sigan grins and reassures, “If you give yourself to me, your friends…” 

He looks at Merlin, who remains silent, and continues to steal the magic from the stones while he waits for his answer. While Sigan is preoccupied, Nimueh places her hand on Merlin’s shoulder and again, he is taken back to the image of the dragon that is now lowering its large head, as if bowing to him. 

_I am sorry, young warlock,_ comes the dragon’s deep-throated voice, _But_ _it’s time._

Merlin closes his eyes and _inhales_ , exhales, _inhales_... He searches for his magic, that glimmer of light _just_ beyond his reach – Nimueh subdues any pain that the searching would normally cause—and power from the dragon surges through his veins again. Merlin pictures the manacles curled around his wrists, digging into his inflamed skin and strangling his magic, and wills them to come off. 

They have to come off. They _must_ come off. He squeezes his eyelids together to concentrate further on that one thought.

An audible click is heard throughout the caves, and Sigan jerks his head towards Merlin.

“No!” he screams as he rushes towards the boy who lies still on the ground.

…

…

 _“…what are you waiting for? Get them_ off _.”_

_James gapes at Merlin and takes a step back. “Oh, god,” he gasps. “He’s—He’s really a—”_

_“Do it!” Will demands, and somewhere in the darkness, Merlin feels the pressure upon his wrists, and he feels the cold metal rubbing against his skin._

_James closes his eyes and wills the manacles to come off._

Click _._

_Sounds crash in his ears, feelings bombard his senses, and he’s in a never-ending freefall as his magic rushes back to the surface. He wants to open his eyes, but the sensations overpower his will to move. He fights back against the wave of feelings and curls his fingers into the ground, forcing the excess influx of magic into the earth—_

Open.

Open your eyes.

Open your eyes, Merlin.

Open your eyes, Merlin.

…

…

He opens his eyes to Sigan, who is hovering just above him. Long crimson streaks of blood run down from his nose to his lips and from his ears down his neck, and the dagger is poised in his hand… and why, oh _why_ is the blade already so bloody? Merlin’s eyes follow the direction of the blade, which digs deeply into his left arm.

Strangely enough, though, there’s no pain…

 _Oh, it must still be Nimueh,_ he concludes.

As his mind continues to shake away the fog of unconsciousness, it takes Merlin a few minutes to notice that the more Sigan stabs, the more blood continues to stream from the madman’s face. 

_The power is too much for him,_ he finally realizes.

He concentrates on the dragon, who lends him more power to force into Sigan, and as the madman continues to frantically cut away, he inches his other arm towards Excalibur. 

All Arthur can see is the surprise on Sigan’s face as Excalibur is plunged into his chest, and the brilliant gold fading from Merlin’s still eyes is the only warning he has before a great wind forms around him and the others.

And in a flash, the cave disappears. 

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.


	12. Coda

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

“Merlin.”

“Will.”

The raven-haired boy turns around and smiles. Will hasn’t aged a day since he last saw him in Ealdor when the bandits attacked their village, when he held his broken body in his arms…

“You can’t go back,” he tells Merlin. “They need closure.”

Merlin hesitates for a fraction of a second and then slowly nods his head, but turns back around to Gwen and Arthur who are seated around the table in their chambers, laughing. 

How long has it taken for them to be _this_ happy?

Will places a hand on his shoulder.

“How is Morga-” Merlin begins, still watching the couple.

“-she’s alright.”

“And Mordred?”

“Likewise. So are Freya and your father...” Will trails off and then softens his tone. “Come back, Merlin. They need closure. Morgana wants you now.”

Will can see the slight slump in his shoulders and the resignation set in his eyes when Merlin turns back around, this time for keeps. Merlin puts his arms around him, but Will pulls himself out of the embrace and bumps Merlin in the arm. A crease forms between Merlin’s brows, but a mischievous grin appears on Will’s face.

“I told Mordred about you – dust bunnies now, _galore!_ ”

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.

_When the wind curls around your lips, brushing slight wisps across your face, that’s what magic feels like._

_Sometimes it bites, turning skin red and sending prickles down the spine. But mostly, it wants to be played with, molded and guided. Like the steady heartbeat of a forest, the thrumming of magic is forever._

_This is the true essence of magic, its root always within the earth._

. ◊.♦.◊.♦.◊.


End file.
